


The New President

by space_goose



Series: The Citadel of Dystopia [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Blood, Brain Surgery, Brainwashing, Child Abuse, Gen, Genocide, Gore, Grimdark, Human Experimentation, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Mind Manipulation, Muteness, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Selectively Mute Morty, Slavery, The Ricklantis Mixup, Torture, Unethical Experimentation, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, no explict rape, no rickmorty, original Mortys - Freeform, original Ricks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_goose/pseuds/space_goose
Summary: After a supposed fun and caring Morty becomes the new president of the Citadel Of Ricks, everything goes wrong as the Morty shows his true colours as the next Hitler, or someone even worse. Ricks are treated like Mortys, Mortys are treated like Ricks; it's all switched around. The Citadel turns into a dome of death, rather than a sanctuary for Ricks and Mortys alike. In this horrible new world, two Ricks imprisoned in the ruins of Mortytown wait for the day they're drafted into the president's army, but their simple slave lives take a huge turn during a so-called regular day. Was the change in their lives for the best or for the worst?





	1. Ricktown

**Author's Note:**

> THE NEW EPISODE KILLED ME. i screamed the entire time while watching it and then cried when evil Morty showed up..... God that was the best episode. anyway, expect this to be a series or something. i love the idea of overlords being in control on planets and shit, it's just my thing. expect half life 2 references my dudes

The Citadel of Ricks fell into ruins the day a Morty was elected as the new president. Not because of economic or financial problems; nothing even close. The only problem this president served to the pocket dimension sanctuary was his form of ruling. He was a totalitarian dictator and took control of the citadel and the lives of everyone inside it. The Morty was a psychopath, the unfortunate Hitler in a dimension that was born without one, and the Ricks were stupid enough to let him take the throne. The president was only a young boy, and with more than half of the population being Ricks, the elders let their irrational attachment to each and every Morty fool them into electing the insensitive dictator.

The totalitarian had brainwashed both Ricks and Mortys, making them the perfect soldiers: submissive, loyal, and fueled by pure, seething hatred. They were the president's Nazis.

He had absolute control of countless Ricks and Mortys. He had an almost infinite army made of war slaves and with them, he could do whatever he pleased and could easily take over the entire multiverse with the snap of his morally corrupt fingers.

Before he did anything even close to starting an invasion on the entire multiverse, he made sure the Ricks aboard the citadel paid a horrible price. The old men were treated like wild animals, thrown onto the street and kicked from their homes. They were killed mindlessly and beaten by guards and even the police force. They were forced to live in Mortytown (now known as Ricktown or the Rick slums) and other run-down places throughout the citadel. The men had been stripped of their 'Rick-ness' once again but were also stripped of their freedom, too. Just like the old citadel that was run by the council, portal guns were not supplied to all Ricks. However, in the new system, no Rick was allowed a portal gun. The guards started to take those from anyone lucky enough to have one and the guns were either hidden or destroyed. If anyone was caught making bootleg portal fluid, they were killed.

Not every Rick was thrown aside into Ricktown, though. Only the useless ones, or in other words, the ones with shitty jobs that a robot could do 50x better, and the Ricks with Mortys that found their grandfathers ineffective and corrupt. The deemed 'useful' Ricks were living among Mortys in so-called luxury and performed lines of work that helped the citadel grow or supported the president with his army. Even useless Mortys were shoved into the slums, only to be hunted down by savage, angered Ricks or live in hiding and fear.

It was genocide and slavery. Complete chaos. However, Ricks weren't being treated any different than most Mortys were being treated beforehand, so their complaints were ignored and only followed up with snide comebacks about the hypocrisy of their accusations.

Rick C-8089 had his portal gun taken from him and he was shoved into a shitty dump within Ricktown with at least 40 other Ricks all crammed in there as well. Everywhere you stepped, there was a sleeping bag or mattress on the ground and some Rick's junk in a bag. Most of their Mortys were taken from them so the young boys could live in luxury, just like Ricks had all those months ago.

Was it months? Maybe even years. He didn't know when the citadel was teleported into the galactic federation prison, but life before it was much nicer than it was nowadays. The Morty president has been ruling for months now, but he was afraid that maybe it could have been an entire year, even.

Rick C-8089's Morty was taken from him. It was his original Morty, too. He cared about the kid deep down, and then the fucker agreed to be taken away and leave his Rick behind. Morty hated Rick, but he couldn't blame him. He never showed his affection and just treated the kid like shit. So, maybe he was part of the problem that Ricks were being treated so harshly. A vengeful, spiteful and psychopathic Morty took control, so every Rick was to blame. They started the trend of treating their grandson like shit, so this was bound to happen.

Sometimes Mortys in huge suits of armour, like sci-fi level armour, would come into the 'Rick slums' and beat the ever-loving shit out of any Rick in their path. Some died, but no one cared and just left their bodies to rot on the streets until they were taken away by some necrophilic cannibals (well, that was the rumour on why the bodies disappeared, anyway). There was the police force, most were Ricks, but they were powerless when the president had an entire brainwashed army at his fingertips.

The one time Rick C-8089 got into contact with the armoured Mortys, or most commonly known as Bruiser Mortys, was about three days ago.

First, they punched him in the face, dislodged a tooth or two and sent him sprawling to the ground. He spat blood out and wiped his bleeding nose. He didn't know about the Bruisers before, so he had no idea what was going on.

"What the fuck is your problem?" He quizzed them in disgust, standing back up with a groan. They just smiled at him and rolled with the punches. One held him while the other unmercifully punched him in the guts with an iron fist. He broke a few ribs, coughed up blood for hours and started to internally bleed out. It wasn't nice. It was painful and horrible, but he managed to save himself being the smartest man in the universe. He made some device and medication to fix himself right up. At least he knew to stay away from Bruiser Mortys now.

Rick made friends with another Rick. He was from dimension B-13K and wasn't quite human. He looked slightly reptilian, but he was still the same old Rick. At least C-8089 could tell him apart from other Ricks in the huge crowds that piled in the streets. He liked to call his friend 'Rizard', he didn't seem to mind. And since Rick C-8089 looked slightly amphibian, he was nicknamed 'Rishy', kinda like fishy, just with an 'R'. That became their official names since calling out "Rick!" In a crowd of Rick's never proved to be a good idea.

But that isn't important. None of that is important, what was important, was the day Rizard and Rishy found a lone, hurt Morty in an alleyway one day. The poor thing had been beaten by someone, presumably an angry Rick, probably a gang of them, and the two men didn't like the fact that the boy was only in his dirty underwear and nothing else. They feared he had been raped as well, but they only hoped that their suspicions were inaccurate.

They approached slowly and carefully, trying their hardest to not look like trouble. The Morty didn't catch on quick and started to scream in fear, his indistinguishable voice ringing out throughout the town like some sort of 'Rick' magnet.

"No, no, shush kid, we're not here to hurt you. You gotta keep quiet." Rishy felt that the Morty had heard that quite sometimes before being beaten or worse. Maybe he should have chosen a better word choice, but then again, what else could he have had said?

"Stay away! Don't touch me you filthy fucks!" He tried to scramble further into the corner, but his body was incapable of phase shifting through solids. He didn't stop though, at some point, Rishy thought he was trying to dig through the metal wall with his nails.

"Literally, calm down. We're friendly, not here to hurt you. Trust us, Morty." The boy still didn't trust them. He looked like the normal Morty, just he was wearing a white cowboy hat. That was the other article of clothing he had on other than soiled underwear.

"You're going to give away your location--" speak of the devil.

"Hey, you found us a Morty," a loud voice boomed from behind the two friendlier Ricks. They turned around, eyes meeting with a rugged looking Rick. His hair was messy, darker and his clothes were torn. He was wearing a white tank top with the casual brown pants. He looked blind in his left eye, and the left side of his face looked like it was recovering from some major damage. It was still slightly red, and it was obvious the flesh had been burnt recently.

He wasn't the only Rick. A group of ten more Ricks stood behind him, and they looked just as fucked up as he did. They also looked much stronger than the average Rick, way younger too. It was strange, almost as if they were windows to look back at Rick's younger self.

The gang leader glared back at them, urging them to move with a single click of his finger.

"No," Rizard barked, stepping in front of the kid. Rizard was way too protective of Mortys, Rishy found it surprising. Apparently, Rizard wasn't afraid to let his Morty know he loved the kid, and they were happy and weren't in any sort of toxic relationship what-so-ever. Rishy secretly envied him, wishing he had the guts to have treated his Morty the way he should have. It was too late now, and he had another problem to deal with.

He grabbed his shoulder. "Rizard, it isn't worth trying."

"Yes, it is! I'm not going to let-- let a poor Morty die!"

"Keep it down! I don't want to die either, y'know."

The gang leader Rick was already angry. Rishy could see the bastard boiling in the corner of his eye. He looked like he was about to bust a nut from pure fucking frustration.

" _Please_ don't tell me you care about Mortys? You know what we do to Ricks like you. Move aside or I'll fucking kill you both," he seethed, growing more frustrated by the second.

Rizard went to yell back, but Rishy stopped him. He gave him the eyes that told him that it was pointless, and Rizard finally realised that it was indeed pointless. It would only add another two unnecessary deaths to one already tragic one.

Rizard let out an anguished cry and pushed through the gang of Rick's, running back to the Rick shelter.

Rishy looked back at the kid and sighed. "I told you to listen. I'm sorry." He ran off too, not wanting to get involved with the event. However, he felt a fist grip up a bundle of his shirt and he went spiralling into a bigger Rick's chest. Oh, he was buff.

"Where you think you're going? Don't you wanna stick around and help out?" He wasn't asking. He was commanding him. Rishy gulped.

"I have somewhere to be. Let me go."

The buff Rick made a mocking tone. "Sure, fish tits. You do remember we all have the same IQ level?"

Well, it was worth the try.

The buff Rick pushed him away and back into the alley, expecting him to do something. He couldn't.

"Are you seriously kidding me?" The gang leader spoke, sounding disgusted. "A Rick that can't hurt a Morty? What a waste of space." Before he could lay a hand on Rishy, Rishy went up to the kid and kicked him.

It hurt emotionally. He was too sober for this.

"Oooh, never mind. You do have some fire in you, old man."

Rishy blocked him out. The only way he could get out here alive was to beat the fuck outta this Morty and ruin himself psychologically in the progress.

Fuck it. He was a Rick. He was born for this.

He grabbed the kid by his hair and pulled him up, kicking him in the gut with his knee. Every time his knee collided with the boy's lower stomach region, he gave out a pained yelp and groan. Blood was already seeping from the corners of his lips, dripping down his chin in a thin line. Rishy dropped him. Morty hit the side of his head onto the ground and he mumbled curses as tears flowed freely from his eyes. Rishy got down on all fours and pushed the Morty against the floor by his back, grabbing his neck with his hands. He constricted the airway with his fingers and let his thumbs gnaw at the skin under his jaws. He kept tightening the grip until his hands started to hurt, and was surprised he hadn't crushed Morty's neck yet. The boy was kicking and writhing as he tried to get the bigger man off him but to no avail. He started to go purple in the face as he desperately tried to get air into his lungs. He wondered why he wanted to live anyway if this was all his life was.

He kept struggling though, his flight response was on full throttle and the adrenaline was sending him into overdrive.

It did nothing. He was too weak.

Rick released the grip just before Morty passed out. Colour returned to his face as he took in deep long breaths, but he could hardly feel his body. He felt tired and out of it. His mind was swirling and he was confused. Very confused. But scared.

Rishy slapped him to get his full attention. Morty just groaned, finding the slap unwelcoming.

While still straddling the boy's hips, he looked back at the gang. "Anyone wanna join in?"

"Thought you'd never ask," he heard one member say, and before long, the entire gang was coming forward. Rishy stood up and looked down at the boy. It felt nice to punch his feelings out, but not into Morty. He should have just strangled the kid to death so he wouldn't have to deal with ten different Rick's gang banging him.

Now he felt bad. Really fucking bad.

He let out a string of curses and ran off before he could see anything happen. He ran all the way to his Rick shelter, calling for Rizard.

When they found each other, Rishy actually cried. He fucking cried over a Morty, and maybe it was because he'd been sober for so long. He forgot what it was like to pretend he was a piece of a shit, he forgot what it was like to pretend to hate Mortys.

Surely, that gang must have loved Mortys at least some time in their lives. Now with the Ricks being the underdogs and the Mortys being the overlords, any Morty that was found in Rick slums were kidnapped and raped. Ricks didn't care about paedophilia or incest, they couldn't give a shit. They were angry and wanted the little bastards to suffer.

Sad thing is, basically every Rick went along with it.

Rishy found it disgusting.


	2. He Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living in Ricktown is hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally posted the chapter lmao. sorry if this chapter is a little boring, i had to get it over and done with so i can write the good part ;D

In Ricktown, there was a ledge near the glass dome prison walls, where everything outside the citadel could be seen: space, stars, nebulae, and even spaceships that zoomed past sometimes.

The ledge was quite far up so you had to climb and jump on various obstacles to get up there, but it was worth it in the end. It was worth it to see the magnificent glistening stars, the ones that were impossible to reach when you were trapped inside a dome. Rishy missed the stars. He missed the feeling of being able to go anywhere he wanted, see whatever he wanted, and do whatever he wanted... It did get boring when it started to become some daily mission for him and his Morty. But it was nice to watch his Morty’s face light up whenever he saw something new, and he still remembered the look on the boy’s face when he saw his first alien planet.

Rishy’s heart started to ache at the memory. He missed his Morty. He missed the cosmos.

That’s why he sat up on the ledge every ‘night’. He would just stare into the abyss of the universe and remember old times; the good times. He didn’t even care that he was crying since no one was around to see it anyway.

“Rishy?” A voice peeped from behind him. No one’s ever come up here before.

He turned around and saw Rizard standing there with a puzzled expression.

“Oh; hey. Yeah, d-don’t mind me.”

Rizard’s expression turned unamused. “W-w-what the fuck are you doing?”

“Chilling. How’d you find me anyway? No one ever comes up here.”

“I followed you...” he scratched the nape of his neck. “I just wanted to know where y-you kept disappearing off to every night.”

“Oh. That’s cool.” He looked away quickly, remembering that he had been crying. His face got red and puffy way too easily. He’s sobbed over a Morty in Rizard’s arms before, and he didn’t want to be caught crying again. He’d look like a fucking pussy or something.

He didn’t hear Rizard leave. Instead, he only heard his slow breaths draw closer before the man took a seat next to him. Rizard did the same as Rishy, putting his legs up to his chest and holding them there with his arms. It’s not like he could sit any other way since the ledge was right up against the glass.

Rizard didn’t say anything. He gazed into the stars, following each star with his reptile-like eyes. His lips parted slightly as he stared, looking more happy by the second. Rishy saw his lizard tongue wiggling around his mouth, just near his teeth. His two fangs made him look like a gawking cat.

"I fuckin' miss being surrounded by the mass of stars."

Rishy sighed with a nod. "That's why I-I-I come up here."

"Yeah, I can see why now." He put his hand against the glass and rested it there.

Silence loomed over them again, but it was the good kind of silence. One they both wanted.

Before Rizard could fall asleep and fall off the ledge, Rishy lead them both down and they went back down to their apartment in Rick town to sleep.

\---

Loud voices awoke Rishy from his sleep. He grumbled and swore under his breath, opening his groggy eyes and peering around. He wiped the slobber from his mouth as he watched the other twenty Ricks in the place yell incomprehensible non-sense while they crowded and cluttered outside.

He caught a glimpse of Rizard in the growing crowd and immediately got up and ran to him, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him out of the crowd. The other was surprised by the sudden jerk on his shoulders, gasping lightly. When he realised it was Rishy, he was gushing for words.

"Rishy, dude, they're here. Fuck fuck fuck--"

"Shit! That was sooner than usual." He knew exactly what was happening.

Rizard grabbed his wrist and literally pulled him through the crowd, pushing many different Ricks out of the way, earning angry yells and curses aimed at them. They made it outside and watched as the entire neighbourhood of hundreds and thousands of Ricks started to group outside the streets. On the streets was a hovering vehicle. It looked like a black limo from Earth and was obviously incredibly important. On top of the vehicle were flagpoles with the new Citadel symbol, and on the doors were banners with the very same symbol. It made most of the Ricks feel inferior, and they absolutely despised it.

Rishy knew what was happening and automatically went into full panic mode, like everyone else around the street.

They were here to draft Ricks into the military.

It was a horrible process. It was terrifying. One second, you'd be hoping that your dimension wasn't called out, and the next, you'd be on a cargo ship being taken to a factory to get transformed into a literal war machine. No emotions, no controversial thoughts, nothing but death would stop them.

These emotionless war machines were either guards or the military. They were stripped of anything they used to be and their lives were wasted, just so the president could have an army.

Rishy always wondered why only certain amounts of Ricks were sent to be transformed at a time. It didn't make sense. They were doing nothing useful around here, and if the little turd president wanted such a big army, why didn't he just send everyone into the fucking factory. He figured it was because they didn't always have enough manipulator chips to use, or maybe not enough space, but honestly, sometimes he wished he had already been taken away so he didn't have to wait for the next day where he would inevitably be drafted.

He listened to the Rick next to him having a literal panic attack, stating things like, "I just know they going to call me out," or "this is the fucking end." There was more, but Rishy didn't bother to listen. It only made him more anxious himself.

Then the process started. Four bodyguards surrounded the vehicle doors, and the doors to the black vehicle opened, and out stepped a suited Morty. It wasn't the president, it was probably one of his staff. He was wearing a Morty Council badge, and his hair was neatly brushed back. He looked over the sea of Ricks with disgust and pulled out a hard light tablet. It was listed with hundreds of different dimensions with its respectful Rick next to the name.

He pulled his microphone from around his ear and let it hang around the corner of his mouth. It connected to all the speakers around the neighbourhood that were put up a few days after the Morty became president.

"Is everyone here?" The Morty asked, his high-pitched but slightly monotone voice asked. Most of the president's staff sounded like him: emotionless and without a stutter. It was kind of scary, actually.

A collective "yes" went out, and the Morty cleared his throat.

"I know you've all been through this process before, but it's my job to tell you dumbasses the same thing over and over again," he groaned. He sounded tired and pissed off about something. "If I call your dimension name, please move to the cargo ship--" he pointed at the huge cargo ships that each took up ten meters of airspace-- "and wait for a guard to allow you inside. If you refuse to come to the cargo ship, you will be tracked down and used as shooting practice for your friends." Rishy knew that wasn't a part of his script, but he knew that he wasn't joking.

He cleared his throat again. He was about to start calling names.

"G-336."

An angry cry rung out, but the Rick still went forward, heading to the cargo ship. A guard inspected him, making sure he was free of anything illegal or that couldn't be taken to the factories; which was nothing. You couldn't take anything to the factories. The guard let him through.

"D-69B."

Same thing. Angry cry, guard inspected him, free to get onto the ship.

Morty went through another... Rishy didn't even know. Maybe ninety Ricks? The Rick that was having a panic attack next to Rishy had been called out around thirty dimensions in. He tried to run off but was shot dead in the back of the head. Rishy tried to ignore the carnage lying right next to him.

He was really starting to hope that he wasn't last.

"C-809." Fuck. That was close.

A Rick went to the cargo ship. When the guard was inspecting him, he found a flask in his coat. The flask was taken and put into the hovering incinerator floating next to the guard. With a growl, the Rick pushed the rookie-solider onto the ship with a forceful shove.

Rishy still found it hard to believe how much the president had fucked up these guards. Ricks didn't care about alcohol or drugs, but these guards had been brainwashed to think otherwise. It was wrong.

"B-13K." Rishy froze.

Oh.

Rizard yelled in despair beside him. "No! I'm not fucking going!"

The bodyguards already had guns aimed at him.

Rishy grabbed Rizard's hand, clamping their fingers together. Rishy's voice was trembling. "Listen, bro. I'm so fucking sorry, and I hate that I can't help you, but it's better trying to escape later on than dying right now."

The half-reptilian man hissed. "No one _ever_ escapes."

"You might be the first."

He scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. I'm going to jump out the fucking door when we're high enough." He released the hand hold with a shove and stormed off, sending a hiss at the bodyguards and shaking his frill. The guard at the cargo ship checked him over, finding nothing, and booted him in.

Of course, Rizard had to be last. Bad luck was cursed to every Rick in existence, but Rishy felt like he had the worst luck.

The last cargo took off, flying off. Rishy watched it go and even ignored the suited Morty leaving. He kept watching the large ship until it flew behind a pair of buildings, concealing itself from Rishy's vision. His heart ached with unwanted emotions and his eyes threatened to leak. He kept the tears in with any emotional control he still had and tucked his hands in his pockets. Every other Rick had left or went back to their normal schedule, leaving the streets empty, other than the suspicious Ricks that hung out outside of buildings. Looking down at the dirty floor, Rishy walked to his ledge in silence.

He was really looking forward to sitting up on his ledge with Rizard that night.  
\---

Two days later, Rishy found himself alone still. The other Ricks were either rapists and murderers, psychos or pricks. No one was like Rizard. Rizard was like Rishy, they were both still sociopaths, but at least he wasn't prone to stab Rishy in the back like his Morty had done. Figuratively and literally.

So he sat alone and pondered silently. He went deep into memories or just made up scenarios in his head, scenarios that he wished happened. He wanted to find another Morty and protect him. Keep him hidden and look after the boy like a grandfather should. The president said he didn't see Ricks and Mortys as divided. He saw everyone as one. That's the speech that made him win, but of course, the whole speech was a lie. The president was a lie. He was a faker, a psychopath, pretending to care, pretending to be nice, when all he really wanted was power. He was a psychopathic megalomaniac.

Two awful things to be in one.

He wished someone would assassinate the little bastard. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. Sure, he was a 14 year old with control over an army, but that's the thing, he had a brainwashed army, and they weren't letting anything near him. Once, on the big hard light screens around Ricktown that the president was projected on to talk to the residents, the president had announced that he was fed up with random Ricks trying to assassinate him. Behind him stood a Rick with cuffed hands and his entire face had been burnt horrendously.

 _"If you gaffers pull this shit again, I'm going to do more than hurt you. I'll take away more of your rights if you even have any left anyway,"_ he had said before blasting the Rick's face off with a plasma pistol.

As impulsive as some Ricks can be, no one ever tried to assassinate him after that.

However, if he couldn't die, then there was no way to escape the hellhole. Making bootleg portal fluid was hard enough when there was basically no way to get the required ingredients and instruments to make the damn stuff. Leaving Ricktown was a risky decision. Every Rick there was branded with a mark, an 'R', and it was on the back of their hands. It was so Mortys could tell Ricks apart. Either they were useless pricks living as slobs, or the "useful" Ricks.

So walking out of Ricktown wasn't always such a good idea. You'd be stared at and judged from afar, sometimes you wouldn't even be served at the business set up around. Most of the places with 'Rick' in the name had been completely changed, now with 'Morty' in the name. So, it wasn't Ricks kicking Ricks out of shops, it was Mortys.

Not only were ghetto Ricks usually kicked out or ignored, but anyone working at the shops had specific items that they couldn't sell to them. Usually, items that could help make portal fluid or anything else illegal that could help a Rick escape.

Anyway, yeah, it was fucking impossible to escape the literal _space holocaust_.

He didn't sleep easy that night again.

\---

Being awaken by flocking voices was becoming a daily occurrence. As Rishy sat up from his mattress with an unnecessarily lengthened groan, he precautionary moved out of the way of the oncoming Ricks. They didn't seem to notice him and ended up resembling a herd of elephants that were ready to crush Rishy under their feet given the chance. The amphibious man stood up from his mattress and backed out of the flow of old men, watching them leave the building in tight bulges. There was yelling outside and the loud hum of a hover car.

In bewilderment, he joined in with the group of Ricks and followed them outside, to which he found ten police vehicles, five military starships that looked armed to the shithouse, at least ten bodyguards and Citadel guards, and one of those black limo hover cars again. It still had the Morty Citadel symbol on it, which was seen in his eyes as a symbol of loss of rights and complete governmental control.

Obviously, whoever was inside that car was important. Really fucking important. Rishy was worried that it was the president. He never visited Ricktown. To him, it was just a tumour that had to be removed.

Ricks all around him were thinking the same: "is it the president?", and other similar phrases were being chanted among them.

What could the president possibly want with them?

The door suddenly opened, and Rishy caught nearly the entire crowd bracing for the big moment. Rishy was unconsciously doing it too.

"Stay back!" The bodyguard demanded at the group of Ricks that were getting a little too agitated.

Then out came _him._

President Morty. The fascist himself, in the flesh.

The little bastard didn't even fake a smile. He just glared with a scowl, almost looking sick just being near these filthy Ricks. He wouldn't be wrong if he thought anything close to that. Most of them were murderers and rapists or just fucked up in the head. That's why their Mortys left them there, or, they were Morty-less.

"Hello, chaps." Just like the other Morty last week, his voice was coming from the speakers situated around the town. The president had a much more monotone voice than the other. "I'm here to settle a deal with you all."

The Ricks growled and muttered among each other, their voices draining out the pulsating hum of the hovering vehicles.

"Hush now. You won't want to miss this."

The voices went quiet, mostly out of fear of getting shot.

"In order for me to make my Citadel safe and running, I need guards, and I also need you ghetto dwellers to be dealt with. I know about the drafting, but this will just make my job a whole lot easier."

Confused voices went all around, and Morty hushed them again.

"Ricktown will be no more. I'm going to make it different. Better, bigger and more useful. You can finally feel like you're helping a greater cause! How about that for a deal?" He was fucking with them, everyone could tell.

"We still don't know what you're talking about," one Rick in the crowd said, speaking loud enough so his voice could be heard.

Morty snapped his fingers and a guard shot the Rick dead. A laser pierced straight through his skull, blasting his brains out in a vibrant carnage of gore.

Everyone around the event jumped back, panic rising in their throats. _Okay, don't talk. Good to know._

"Rule 1: don't speak unless spoken to, peasants," the president huffed, his snob expression soaked with anger. "I'm turning your shitty home into a concentration camp. Enjoy freedom while it lasts, grandpas." With the most annoying little wave Rishy had ever seen (only because he hated how smug the cunt was), the boy went back into his limo.

The entire crowd screamed with fury. They were mad, they were pissed, and they wanted to hit something. Literally. A huge group ran up to the car and pushed over the defensive bodyguards, jumping onto the vehicle. The Citadel guards got out their firearms to shoot, blasting Ricks' skin away with boiling lasers as they fired a barrage at the rogues. One by one they fell, rolling off the car as their bodies lay lifeless on the ground. The groups stopped growing once they came to their senses and realised it was pointless. Already, at least a thirty Ricks had been killed, and forty had been electrocuted by the bodyguards. The bodies either laid dead in a pool of their blood or unconscious from the electrical current that purged their body.

Rishy was apart of neither of those groups. He was in the group that was running away-- well, they were just leaving, uninterested about the whole scenario, but absolutely pissed about the news.

Life was hard enough, he couldn't live in a prison-- hell, he already WAS in a prison, but to make it a double prison? That would be fucking cruel. But the president was cruel, he was a sick fuck who was fueled by revenge and hatred. A psychopath with a hunger for power. What happened the last time a megalomaniac psychopath was elected?

Oh; yeah. The Holocaust.

Rishy had to escape. He had to get this brand off his hand, but there was nothing he could get his hands on to do so.

Maybe he could just get taken away. It would be better than living in a concentration camp. But then he would have to live as an emotionless guard for the person he hated most in the world. Fuck. What was even the point of being alive? You either live in prison, get brainwashed so you lose any free will, or die.

Dying sounded pretty nice.

\---

The construction was rather quick. The fence posts outside the place were simply settled into their rightful positions and then turned on, creating a field of electricity between each post. Basically, if you walked through the fence, you'd be fried.

Then they built sniper nests. They didn't exactly build them, just flew them in on large spacecrafts and welded them to the ground. Next, they made the buildings longer, transforming the homes and shops into a place where over thousands of Ricks could stay. There were shelves protruding from the walls with mattresses. They were the beds. There were about thirty of these long barracks, housing at least 45,000 Ricks each as an estimate.

In the centre of this mess was a courtyard where you could hang out, even though there were way too many Ricks crammed into the one spot. It was claustrophobic and horrible. Then they made everyone do exercise. Actual exercise. Groups were formed so there would be at least some room to actually succeed in doing anything. They would run, lift weights, shoot targets, practise fighting, and keep fit in general. They were training them for their future job as a brainwashed soldier.

The only good thing was the food. They actually got food. A lot, too. Probably to keep them from dying and becoming emaciated. The president couldn't have anorexic soldiers in his army. However, anyone who chose not to eat enough was beaten for an hour, and the food could only be eaten at certain breaks. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Like a family. No Ricks enjoyed that. It felt too domestic.

Then there were the showers. Not gas chambers, actual showers. A giant shower room full of naked old men that could only wash once a week. Everyone reeked and looked disgusting. It felt disgusting. It was uncomfortable to see hundreds of your naked selves showering in the same room. It was more uncomfortable when some of them started to either fuck, jack off, or blow someone else during it. They didn't even care. They would literally do anything to each other in the showers, and the guards never even did anything. They just let Ricks fuck each other in front of other Ricks.

Rishy established that the showers were horrible.

That was his life though. This prison was his life, so he kept to the schedule, just waiting for the day his dimension would be called out over the speakers on drafting day.

It was weird hoping to be brainwashed, but he would much rather be an unfeeling robot than having every right taken from him. Actually, he'd rather be dead. Maybe he could persuade a guard to kill him. Though, the guards weren't allowed to kill Ricks if they asked for it. They ignored them unless physical contact was involved, then the guard usually knocked them out. At least being unconscious keeps you away from reality for a while.

\---

"Hey, did you hear about that Rick that escaped the factory today?"

"Of course! Every Rick is talking about it. Do you think he came back to Mort-- uhh-- Ricktown?"

Rishy had nothing better to do than eavesdrop. He didn't have another Rick to talk to anyway. It was his only way to hear about secret news that president Morty kept from them. He sat in the distance, looking at the floor between his raised legs and scratching at the floor with a dirty fingernail. He kept listening without looking suspicious.

"Why the fuck would he come back here? He's free! Not like he can hide for much longer, but it was nice of him to try."

"Yeah, good point."

He did make a good point. Why would any escapee come back to Ricktown? Rishy hoped it was Rizard that escaped. He knew his friend had it in him, he was smart (it didn't matter if every Rick had the same IQ, he was still smart in his own way) and resilient. He was a goddamn lizard, after all. He probably just climbed out through the air ducts or something.

But Ricks were cursed. There was no way it could be Rizard. Bad luck was forced upon the Rick species, like an interdimensional disease that spreads from dimension to dimension.

With a sigh, Rishy stood up from his position on the floor and ambled out of the barracks and tracked outside. He just wanted to walk for a few hours. Nothing else.

He kept walking for another twenty minutes, just finishing a full circle around the camp, before he felt a negative presence around him. He stopped dead in his tracks, looking up from the metallic ground and peering around. He was next to an alley between two barracks, on both sides of him. The spaces between them were quite small since they had to fit so many barracks in the space, and they weren't any windows on the barracks either, so the alleyways were incredibly suspicious and haunting. He realised how uncomfortable he felt standing next to the dark abyss, but just before he could keep on walking, he felt a pair of hands grab his shoulders from the back and pull him back violently. He was pulled in the alleyway (speak of the motherfucking devil), and of course it was the one he had his back too.

A hand was over his mouth, muffling his frantic yells and curses, and he was thrown to the ground.

He felt a hand grab his ankle and pull him further into the alleyway. God, why was it so dark in this goddamn place. The closest street lamp was another five meters away on the street, and only brought a slick of light into the alleyway, but it died before reaching even a foot into the dark hall. His amphibious eyes got used to light quickly though, making it much brighter in there than a human Rick could ever see.

Finally, he stopped being dragged across the floor and was let go. He got up swiftly but felt his mouth get covered again and his back being pushed against a heaving chest.

"Don't scream, okay? I'm not here to hurt you."

Wow, yeah, that really made him feel better.

"Just promise me not to scream."

Rishy nodded anyway.

The Rick holding him released the grip he had on Rishy and let his mouth free. Rishy didn't scream, but he wasn't keeping quiet.

"Who the fuck are you?" He turned around just before he said his sentence, and realised that it was pointless to ask. His eyes could make out the frame of the Rick, and it was definitely not a normal Rick.

"Rizard?" His heart started to ache with hope.

His heart's wish was granted.

"I escaped. Just like you said." He expected Rizard to sound happy, but he sounded sad. No, not sad, just... Different.

"Holy shit, so you aren't one those fuckin' robots?"

"No, I'm fine. Kinda. The manipulator chip didn't connect properly because of my scales," he pointed to his neck, which had a small device clipped into the dips of his scales and a small, flashing red dot. "It couldn't completely brainwash me. I-- I can't feel emotions as strong as I did before, I can tell, but I can think for myself at least..."

Rishy without thinking reached out and lightly tapped the manipulator chip. Rizard didn't react badly, he just placed his hand over Rishy's and pushed it down until the palm was flat against his neck. Rishy could feel the every breath his friend took, and let his thumb rub the smooth scales gently.

"Rishy, what the hell happened to Ricktown?"

Oh. Rizard was already gone before it was turned into a concentration camp.

"Long story," he sighed softly. "President Morty, the cunt, decided to turn Ricktown into a literal concentration camp. It's like being in a prison within another prison; it's horrible!"

"Wait, a fucking concentration camp? You've been forced into slavery?"

"Weren't we already?" He sighed, rubbing his eye with the bottom of his palm. "But yeah, we're forced to do exercise and eat a certain amount of food. Now we have to shower at certain breaks, too. I've been waiting to get drafted for fucking ages. I just want to leave."

The grip around Rishy's hand got tighter.

"No... You don't want to get drafted." His voice was low, much lower than before. "The factory that we were taken to was probably the worst place I've ever seen. God-- it was hell. So bad, so fucking bad. They never cleaned anything, so there's dry blood nearly everywhere, it stinks like every possible bodily fluid, and the guards are sadistic psychopaths. The cells were too small for at least thirty other Ricks that were locked up with me. Nonstop noise, no sleep, no fucking room. Then they took us out of the cell and made us do exercise for five consecutive hours. Then we ate, and then they took us to get chipped..." he could hardly stop talking, "a robot arm chips us. That's probably why it didn't get through my scales."

"Dude, it sounds better than this fucking place; trust me. You haven't had to live in this place yet."

Rizard grunted. "Good point, but I need to hide. They're looking for me. I can't go back there, I fucking-- fucking can't!" He clawed at his face with a panic-stricken voice, almost on the verge of squeaking. He sounded incredibly distressed just thinking about the place. There must have been something else that Rizard didn't mention. He shuddered at the thoughts that crossed his mind.

"Well, can you take the chip out?"

Rizard shook his head. "It may not be infused completely, but manually removing it would kill me."

"Fuck-- uh, there aren't many places to hide. Could you try and hide in the roof? I haven't explored the design of the barracks yet, but it's a possibility."

"Fine, take me to your apartment then."

Rishy grabbed his hand. "Keep your head down. Just follow me." With his hand still entwined with his friend's, they ran out of the alleyway and back onto the dimly lit street. They passed many other Ricks who gave them weird looks, but they didn't stop. When they arrived, Rishy made sure to shut the door behind them and shoo any other Rick that was in there. He realised that may make them more suspicious, but he didn't trust Ricks these days. They more likely to tell the guards about the escapee he was hiding if they heard it first-hand, probably.

Rishy looked around the room, his eyes a flurry of movements as he searched for somewhere to hide his friend. He thought about the beds, but there wasn't enough space at the bottom of the last rack to hide a man. There was nothing else in the room, just two pillars that connected to the floor and roof, and empty space. The ceiling wasn't hollow. You couldn't fit anything in there. Fuck.

"Fuck! Fuck, shit-- you can't hide in here. There might be somewhere outside--"

His sentence died on his lips. The Ricks outside started to bang and bash the door, trying to get it open, and demanding for Rishy to open it before they "gut them alive" and other equally painful things that Rishy knew were more than just mild threats.

"Fuck it, you're hiding in an alleyway. It's the only place safe enough for the time being. We need to get the fuck out of here," Rishy stated without letting Rizard put his two cents in. The amphibious man dashed to the door that sounded close to falling in and opened it. It was never locked. He wondered why the Ricks didn't just open it.

"What the fuck crawled up your ass, dickhead? Don't just kick us out like that so you can fuck your boyfriend in here. Gross," one of the Rick's complained, grabbing Rishy's shoulders and tossing him outside. Rizard was tossed out after, and the rest of the Ricks piled inside and went back to what they were doing before.

Rishy growled but grabbed Rizard's hand again to scurry off again. They ran all the way back to the alleyway that they found each other and hid inside. It was still pitch black in there as it was 'night time', the slick of artificial light barely even illuminating a single patch of the floor.

They panted, the consecutive running doing a big number on their old lungs. "Don't fucking leave the alleyway. I'll come back in the morning."

Rizard nodded, but he was hesitant to agree. He didn't like this. He knew it wasn't a good idea, nothing about this was a good idea. Anyone could see into the alleyways with ease during the daytime. He was fucked, but he accepted his fate. He didn't say anything. He kept his suffering to himself, like all Ricks do, staying silent with a neutral scowl across his face.

"Yeah. I got it, now piss off." There was no bite behind his words. Why would he be angry at Rishy? He's only trying to help, even if he can't.

Rishy lightly tapped Rizard's cheek and ran out of the alleyway, disappearing around the corner.

Rizard walked back onto the wall and slowly slid down it, falling on his ass and dragging his knees up to his chest. He clawed at his eyes with no purpose of self-harm and cried. He tried to keep quiet, holding back most of the sobs that threatened to burst from his lips, but they just bubbled up in his throat, burning and aching for release. He didn't try and stop the tears. They flowed freely, staining his lab coat a deeper white. He didn't cry for long. He was a Rick.

Ricks _don't cry_. They drink until they pass out and miss the laser aimed for their head.


	3. Mortimer G-575

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortys don't have it as easy as Ricks like to make out.
> 
> (i would like to mention that this happens sometime in between chapter 2, and not after it)

"Is he ready?" The young brunette surgeon asked, slipping his white latex gloves on with a loud slap.

"Y-yes, G-575. He's awake," another Morty replied, one of the surgeon's co-workers. His co-worker was wearing a lab coat, while the surgeon wore a surgeon's appeal, obviously. He donned the surgical mask around his face.

"Good." Mortimer (also known as G-575), the surgeon, pushed the clipboard to his co worker's chest having successfully finished reading it. The requirements were already set out for him in his working place. He already knew how to perform this type of surgery anyway.

Without another word, he entered his working area, glaring at his patient. He sauntered over to the bonded man, pulling the wheeled trolley closer over with him. On the trolley consisted of various surgical instruments, all sharp and glistening in the bright light above them.

His patient was wide awake. His entire body was strapped to the chair by steel bonds, and a metal ring was secured around his cranium, keeping his head completely still. The surface of his scalp was shaved completely, leaving nothing but shiny skin and not even a single blue hair. A series of groans left his lips as he attempted to squirm out of his bonds, but not a muscle budged.

Mortimer kept his glare on him with a fixed emotionless look. The only emotion on his face was the hatred burning in his eyes and the disgust hidden behind his silent lips. Mortimer wasn't one to talk much. His Rick taught him that: talk back and abuse follows. The constant cycle that haunted Morty's life. He knew that with the new law in place, any Rick that abused a Morty in any way was thrown in prison, but his past trauma was always with him. No law could ever change that.

He wished he was the one to kill his own Rick, not some stupid alien that didn't even _know_ Rick. The bastard didn't even die slowly. A simple plasma blast blew his entire face off and he died in seconds.

He growled at the memory. His hands felt warm and sticky from the sweat building up under the gloves. He didn't like memories, he didn't like remembering his Rick, they made him uncomfortable and anxious. The only way he could feel happy again was to make other Ricks feel endless agony.

He grabbed the scalpel from the silver tray. His patient's breath started to increase and shudder violently.

"No, no, no, d-don't-- don't you fucking d-dare come near me with that thing!"

Mortimer has heard those words at least fifty times before. They were really starting to become repetitive.

Ignoring the pleas of his patient, he brought the scalpel to the surface of Rick's head and pushed the blade in slightly, watching as it slipped under the skin with ease. A red fluid oozed around the edges of the scalpel's tip, but the site around the wound remained clean. Rick wasn't screaming just yet, only whimpering quietly as he attempted to retain at least a scrap of his stoic reputation.

He dug the scalpel in further so it could slice through all the layers of skin and started to carve through the flesh like a knife through butter. The skin was cut with ease and incredibly caring and precise, not a single drop of blood seeped from the thin incision.

Rick's quiet whimpers reduced to a lengthy groan. He was obviously holding back a scream, either from pain or fear, Mortimer didn't know, and he didn't care. He just wanted to indulge in them. He wanted to set them free.

With a yank, Mortimer peeled the scalp away from Ricks' head with a disgusting wet squelch as the skin disconnected from bone. The flap of skin was placed neatly on the table while it bled onto the tray beneath it.

Rick screamed this time around. As soon as he felt his skin being flayed from his skull, a shriek erupted from his throat and desperate cries and pleads followed after. Mortimer savoured them; he always did.

Now he had to break through Rick's skull.

He picked up a laser cauterizer and charged it, listening as it came to life with a red dot and gentle beep. He placed the tip of the laser on his cranium and pressed a button, a sizzling hiss emitting from the burning bone. Mortimer dragged the cauterizer along the circumference of the skull and then put the tool to the side, now picking up what seemed to be a pair of tweezers. With great efficiency, he pulled the disconnected tab of bone away from the rest of his skull, leaving a massive hole in his cranium. His brain sat pink and fleshy in his head, ready for Mortimer to play with.

The Rick was husky from screaming and his eyes were bloodshot from sobbing. Warm tears drew streaks of pain down his face. He was ashamed to cry in front of a Morty. He was ashamed to cry because of a Morty.

With an approving huff, Mortimer walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. A bulb of some kind lit up from its position on the ceiling, a flash of a blue light bursting from it with a mechanical hum as a mass-less blue bubble covered the enclosed white room. Rick knew exactly what it was. It was an immortality field. A deep dark pit in his stomach grew as he realised Mortimer was going to do something that no mortal could ever tolerate without dying.

Mortimer ambled back to his patient and rubbed his gloved hands together, picking up the scalpel again. Blood was clotting on the blade of the surgical instrument, but white glints in the splatter of a metallic red still glistened in the spotlight above them.

He inserted the tip of the scalpel between the two cerebral hemispheres and pushed deep, slicing down until the top layer of the pink organ was split in two. He needed something longer to finish the job.

Mortimer examined the trolley and grabbed the knife. It didn't matter if it was a messy job, Rick couldn't die in the immortality field anyway.

He pushed the knife deep into the incision, continuing to slice Rick's brain into two separate parts.

Rick felt anomalous sensations all over his body as different triggers sent his muscles shaking in their tight bonds and his senses started to go haywire. He couldn't feel the blade in his brain, but he could still feel the burning agony of his missing bones and skin.

With the first part of Mortimer's job done, he pulled out a half of Rick's brain, the right half, setting it down on the trolley carefully. Rick felt quite sick to see half his brain in someone's hands. He also lost feeling in the entire right side of his body. He didn't know what had happened, actually, because suddenly his mind was empty of any memories on how to write, speak or understand language. His mind went blank, and all he was left with was a horrible pain. The removed pink lump of flesh bled slowly as it lay still on the silver tray.

The surgeon then opened a small crate on the trolley up, revealing another half of a brain. It was smaller than Rick's brain. It was a Morty's brain.

Mortimer's white gloves were stained red as he lifted the cerebral organ into the air. He brought up his other hand which was holding a spray can, and sprayed the side of the brain. The contents of the spray were that of a pink fluid or simply a sticky substance, and it stuck like slime to the pink mound of flesh. He placed the can down and grabbed the brain with both hands, lowering it into Rick's head. He jutted it into its neighbouring hemisphere, letting the pink spray work its job as it connected the two organs together, the former half now welcoming the other smaller half like a brother.

Rick had never been so confused in his life. All these memories came flooding back. One-half, his own memories, another half, some random Morty's memories. He felt like a horny teenager and an elderly man. He felt depressed and lost, but young and anxious.

Something was very wrong.

Mortimer stood in front of his patient with tired eyes. He glared and shone a light into Rick's eyes. The pupils dilated and Rick groaned.

"Tell me what you feel."

Rick moaned in agony. His head was spinning. He was in pain, so much pain, but his mind was surging and aching. His mental state was impossible to comprehend, even for himself. Too many thoughts, too many new thoughts, too many emotions and personality traits that are incompatible with each other-- he felt like his head was about to explode. He was so angry, but he didn't want to yell. But he was mad enough to scream and fight, but he just wanted to cry. He wanted to go home. Did he want his mother, Beth, or his real mother? His 'brains' couldn't tell. They fought with each other, yet they welcomed each other as if nothing was wrong. One-half was young, the other old, he wondered if he would still be alive way past his use by date.

"I'm fine," he lied. His mind was racing, screaming and pounding at the walls with iron fists, but he smiled. "I feel fine."

"Are you lying?"

Rick immediately broke into sobs. Just as Mortimer expected. "What did you DO to me?!" He wailed, once again struggling to move a muscle. He wanted to lash out and scream. "What's wrong with me? What the fuck have you done, you psycho?! Why do I feel like a stupid fucking child?! Answer me! I'm sorry-- no! Fuck you--" a feral roar tore from his throat as he fought with the personalities in his head. They wouldn't shut up. He pleaded with them to be quiet, to stop talking, just shut up shut up shut up!

Mortimer sighed, not phased by the explosive behaviour. He wasn't new to this.

"Alright, this is getting annoying." He picked up a syringe and stuck the tip into his neck, injecting its contents into Rick's bloodstream. The screams and sobs went silent as he slipped from conscious and fell into a temporary sleep.

Mortimer growled and wiped his hand across his face, ignoring the obvious smudges of gore he had just wiped onto his own skin.

He looked over at what he had done. He'd opened his grandfathers head and skull and cut his brain in half, then replaced one-half with a Morty's brain. All without anaesthetic. He knew it was cruel, but that's why he did it. He wanted them to suffer, just like he had. Revenge was good, and it tasted sweet as candy when it was served on a plate of inhumane torture.

Oh, he loved his job. But how did it get to this? How did his normal life as a young boy turn into this? He never wanted to be a surgeon, not after the fiasco of his mum being a horse surgeon. Yet here he was, white gloves covered in dry blood, a tray of bloodied surgical instruments to his side, a white tiled floor stained with specks of crimson beneath his feet, and an unconscious patient sitting before him.

It was all Rick's fault.

Everything was Rick's fault. They made the citadel, they said it was safe and secure, and then C-137 came and destroyed the place almost completely. He wished they hadn't rebuilt it. He didn't want to live in space. He wanted to see his family, but he hadn't seen them in three years. His Rick started adventures with him when he was 9, traumatising him completely from a young age. It didn't help that he was abusive and disgusting and worst than most Ricks.

He was dead now, so he meant nothing now.

Mortimer just wanted his old life back, but the president didn't let anyone leave. He wanted the old citadel back, even though he was seen as nothing but 'useless' back then. He wanted to be 8 again, where Rick was nothing but a story that his mum would tell when she was crying and chugging glasses of red wine as if it was the only thing keeping her alive.

But out of all the things Mortimer wanted, the one he wanted most was for every Rick in every conceivable universe to die.

\---

On his way to work the next day, Mortimer took the shortcut he'd been taking recently. He enjoyed walking to work instead of driving. He wasn't a very good driver, anyway.

The shortcut may have been shorter, but it wasn't exactly safer. He would pass by alleys that looked endless, mere threatening him with their presence, warning him that anything or anyone could jump out and attack him. To his surprise, nothing had attacked him yet.

However, today he noticed something different about his daily journey. As he passed an alleyway, he noticed a group of Mortys inside. There was about four of them, all human but different in some way. Mortimer didn't take notice of their features, he was only concerned about the person the group were crowding around.

In a ball sat a Rick with a yellow shirt and navy blue pants that were much too small. The fabric dug into his skin leaving wrinkles and stretch lines. A dribble of drool hung from his chin, but it wasn't the green drool that usually hung from a Rick's mouth. It was saliva. His yellow shirt had dark patches littered around the hem, and Mortimer took his best guess that it was drool. There was also big red blotches staining the shirt as well, standing out more prominently than the faded saliva patches.

The terrified and writhing Rick looked up at the group of Mortys with horror in his dark eyes. One of his eyes were bloodshot and a large black bruise was starting to form around it, the skin tinted purple and blue at the site of impact. His nose was spitting blood, as having recently been pummeled by fists. His arms were scattered with morbid, brutal bruises, some new, some old. He had plenty cuts over his body as well, once again, some were fresh and bleeding, and some were old and had clotted into dark red scabs.

He was shaking violently, tears spewing from his terrified eyes as weak sobs erupted from his sore throat.

"Ah jeez, you bleed a lot, retard Rick," one of the Mortys stated, wiping the excess blood from his fist onto his own shirt. Mortimer guessed that he was the one that punched the man in the nose. "Also, next time, don't get all your drool on my hand. It's disgusting. I don't want retard germs on me."

Mortimer hated Ricks, but he felt his mind boil with anger. Obviously, the Rick wasn't exactly 'mentally stable', and here were these freaks bullying him and calling him a 'retard'. Mortimer easily could go in there and tell them to stop, but they wouldn't listen to him. He would probably just get beat up too. It wasn't worth the risk. The Rick was probably used to the beatings anyway.

With a sigh, he continued his walk to work, ignoring the cruel voices in the alleyway and the sobs of their innocent victim.

\---

"You're late."

Of course, that was the first thing he heard when he walked in.

"I stopped to w-watch something. Sorry."

His boss sighed, pulling his clipboard up to his face. "Anyway... I have a new experiment for y-you." He pointed at the experiment name on his clipboard and then showed his leading surgeon with testing eyes.

"Reverse mutation..." He read the title, then scanned over the description. Something about mutating a Rick and then surgically replacing the mutated body parts with human parts. Blah, blah, whatever. He wasn't in the mood right now.

He looked back up at his boss with a pained smile. He suppressed the massive groan he wanted to release. He wanted to sleep.

"Cool, can't wait," he lied with an incredibly hard-to-miss sarcastic tone, pushing past the other Morty. First, he would make coffee, and then he would do the surgery. Without caffeine, he would surely pass out during the experiment.

It's happened before; he wasn't risking it again.

\---

He pulled the latex gloves over his hands and snapped them on with a loud slap. He squinted in the bright light of the operating room and glared at his patient.

Suspending midair was a Rick, chains around his wrists and ankles, connected to the floor and ceiling. He was being sprayed out like a starfish, but his head roamed free, staring down the approaching surgeon with a hateful scowl. Fury was boiling within the man's old eyes, but Mortimer shrugged it off, sending back the same look, just with real trauma and emotion.

"What're you looking at, punk?" The Rick snapped, bearing his teeth as if he were a dangerous predator. Mortimer knew this Rick wasn't one of the nicer ones.

Mortimer went to the trolley and picked up a syringe of a mutation serum and tapped the glass lightly with his nail. He was just teasing Rick by this point.

"Do your worst."

_I will._

He inserted the syringe into his neck, emptying its contents into his system. This mutagen was designed to mutate the victim in an instant, and it definitely succeeded in its job.

A hideous cry erupted from Rick's throat as his body started to contort and morph violently. Bones grew and changed shape, the skin was torn and muscle built profoundly larger. Claws protruded from his fingers, made from the bone of his fingers. Hair grew longer and bushier, his body hair basically becoming a shield of blue fur. His teeth morphed into fangs, gums tearing as the teeth grew out. His ears became longer, the skin tugging painfully as it stretched further than its natural limit. His jaws went crooked as they attempted to grow out, but it only deformed his face to a horrifying degree.

There was more than just body horror. Blood dripped from torn skin and exposed flesh. His mouth bled with damaged gums and a split tongue. Nearly every crevice in his body was bleeding, but death never rescued him from the agonising pain and trauma. His body had contorted in ways that shouldn't even be possible, and his muscles were tired and weak from the stress they were put under in a matter of seconds.

Just as the half-werewolf Rick let out a howl of agony, a loud snap of metal discharged. The rattle of chain links cluttering together and echoed around the room, reverberating off the walls in a painful loop of _'tings'_ , and a thud followed after.

Mortimer went stiff with fear. One of the chains holding the patient had broken completely, the stress against it was too much for the metal to handle. Since Rick's body mass had grown greater over the past few seconds, his wrists were two or three times bigger than before. The other chain started to creak and groan before it snapped as well.

Rick fell to the floor, sprawling out as his face made contact with the tiled ground.

Like an idiot, Mortimer stared in fear, and when he turned to leave, a hand grabbed his ankle.

_Shit._

It tugged violently and pulled him over, sending him sprawling to the floor as well. Claws dug into his skin and flesh, drawing blood. Mortimer screamed, kicking back at the creature, but it didn't let go. It cackled as it started to tear and claw at the surgeon's legs, ripping the skin away in flakes of blood. Scarlet pools formed under his deformed legs as they bled out, the exposed bone a magnet to the dog-like mutant. Rick pulled Mortimer towards him and sat up on his knees, throwing the boy beneath him. Now sitting above him, Rick started to throw a barrage of punches at Mortimer's face. His skin was crushed under huge fists and teeth were knocked from their places. He started to hack and choke on the blood pooling in the back of his throat, coughing up splutters of scarlet as he tried to breathe. Then claws began to tear his flesh again. The claws dug under skin and ripped away chunks of tissue and gore, leaving behind a carnage of scarlet and wails of agony.

His vision went dark when he felt his eyes leave their sockets as two claws dug them out. A burst of pain erupted in his head, and it was a mix of physical, mental and emotional pain. He was blind. He never realised how important sight was before everything turned black.

The punches kept rolling until they suddenly stopped. Mortimer didn't know why, he couldn't see anything, but the mutant had been shot and killed, sending his dead body limp over Mortimer.

He knew the abuse was over, but he sobbed and screamed until there was nothing left. Blood was gushing from his wounds and gashes and the pulsing burning pain was only getting worse. It was buzzing in his head, a migraine that no simple painkiller could stop. As he wept, he tried to ignore the world around him and the excruciating pain assaulting his senses.

It was impossible.

But the more he tried, the sleepier he got. Until he realised he had been tranquillised. His mind was slowly falling asleep, finally. He gave out a broken groan until and the pain was nothing but a bad dream.

\---

No one bothered Mortimer at work the next week. He had most of his wounds healed up with ease, but his teeth were replaced with artificially grown ones. The surgery was uncomfortable, but he didn't want to go under. He felt like he deserved to be awake for it, even if he was under the influence of heavy painkillers. The reason this had all happened was that of karma; bad luck for torturing people just because he was craving the sweet taste of revenge.

They gave him a choice of different eyes to chose.

He didn't want anything special, but he couldn't help himself to the mood-colour eyes, even if he couldn't see them while choosing. They changed depending on any strong emotions he happened to feel. They stayed blue when he was feeling weak emotions, but if they got strong, they apparently would start to glow and change colour.

Red was anger. Green was disgust. Black was sadness. Purple was fear. Yellow was euphoria. White was confusion. Pink was love. There was more, probably.

It helped tell people to back off or shut up without having to say a thing. Mortimer didn't like talking much, so these eyes really helped.

His eye colour didn't tell people at work to back off today, it was actually because it was his first day back after the incident with the mutant Rick. Everyone stayed wary of him, usually because he would glare and growl whenever anyone tried to start up a conversation with him. At least everything seemed to be working the usual during the week he was gone.

As he waited to be assigned a job, he sipped at his hot cup of coffee, blowing the rising steam away from the mug. He was sitting at his desk at the office, reading files and writing up profits reports. He did plenty more jobs than surgery. He had a brain implant when he was 13; he was smart enough to do any job. He always had a feeling that the brain implant is what drove him to the breaking point and why his hatred for Rick erupted suddenly one day.

He took another sip of his coffee, a bigger one. He was dwelling on memories again. There was no time for the past. The past is dead, gone forever. There was no point worrying about it.

He really shouldn't waste so much time dwelling on the one thing. It was making him seem like a monomaniac.

Mortimer sighed and wrote the last number for the file, finally completing the stupid file renaming process. He wasn't done just yet. He had other tasks to do as he waited. He didn't want to do any of them, work was boring. Even the practical part was starting to get repetitive. He needed a break.

Just before he could take a break--as if on cue-- he heard his Morty co-workers start a fuss and commotion all around the small office building. They were all out of their chairs, peeking over their cubical to look at something or see what was going on. Mortimer followed along, peering over his cubical to see what the fuss was. Through the windows of the establishment, he saw a massive piling crowd outside, consisting of both Ricks and Mortys. They were grouped around the streets, all obsessing over a black hover-car in the centre of the road. It resembled a human limo, the cars Mortimer would occasionally see back on Earth and would usually get all giddy about since he was only a child. This car was different. It had flagpoles with the haunting logo of the new Citadel and banners on the doors of the vehicle donning the same image. Sure, he felt great pride whenever he saw the logo; it made him remember who he was and what he was fighting for, but the logo was also a painful reminder that Morty was just another cog in the machine of war; nothing but a similar face in a city full of himself and the person he hates.

You couldn't be unique when you're living in a city brimming with _'yourselves'_.

He wanted to be the one who led out the rest of his co-workers by leaving his office cubical first, but the doors to the building opened and a collective gasp went around the room.

The first thing Mortimer took note of was the dark grey suit and the blood red tie, marking the owner more prominent than anyone else in the room. He almost fainted when the president, the owner of those indistinguishable clothes, glanced at him momentarily.

Four bodyguards surrounded the president, checking the room over for any threats or hazards. They weren't the simple bodyguards with black suits and radios, they were citadel guards, all packed with weapons and armour. The president wasn't fucking around when he said he wanted to be under surveillance 24/7.

The black-suited boy adjusted his red tie and cleared his throat.

"Hello, citizens," he declared boldly, his voice loud and strong, but monotonous and cold. There was a sharp snark in his tone as if he was ready to snap at any second. He glared emotionless at the occupants of the establishment, dead eyes gazing over lively ones. However, when those dead eyes met with Mortimer's bright blue orbs, they stopped dead in their tracks. Behind the brightness of the surgeon's eyes, the president saw emptiness and hatred. A malicious smile swept across his lips.

"I'm here to collect a new worker for my establishment." His eyes didn't avert from Mortimer's. "The factory, to be exact. You get no choice in the matter."

It would take an idiot to not come to the conclusion that the president was obviously talking to Mortimer. Yes, he may have been addressing the entire room, but Mortimer already knew that the president made his decision a long time ago.

He didn't know whether to run or not. He didn't want to work at the factory, he'd rather work at the trash dump with the degenerate Morty and Ricks. No one knew hardly anything about the factory, other than the building pumped out soldiers every passing week. The huge pipes protruding from the establishment spouted huge clouds of black smoke into the atmosphere of the citadel, hiding the stars of the outside 'world' from the prisoners inside the dome. The artificial air wasn't cleaned out enough and left the ambience of the Citadel murky, smokey and vile. The air absolutely reeked most of the time, and it wasn't rare for some Ricks (and the incredibly rare Morty) to end up dying just from the polluted air itself.

Other than the smoke the factory would contaminate the air with, the size of the building was unbelievable and terrifying. It was a Goliath of a place, and its overall dismal and menacing appearance made it quite the sight to see. Actually, out of everything Mortimer has seen in his horrible life, the factory had to be the most foreboding thing he's ever seen with his own two eyes.

"You." The voice struck Mortimer cold as ice. He felt his soul crumble and his hopes fall through his fingertips. "Come here." His stare was still dead on Mortimer. There was no way he talking to someone else.

Mortimer had no other choice than to walk up to his alternate self--the dark overlord with a suit and tie-- and awkwardly stand in front of him in silence.

"Yes... you will do just fine," he stated with another quick glance at the shaking boy. "Come with me. Everyone else, get back to work, chop chop." As if his words were lethal, everyone else quickly obeyed and sat down, going went back to work and ignoring the event like it never happened.

The president gave Mortimer a quick smile-- Mortimer knew it was faked-- and walked past the doors, issuing his new worker to follow him. The bodyguards glared at Mortimer, keeping a close eye on him as they walked to the president's car. They looked ready to pull their guns on him at any given moment. A guard opened the door for the president and Mortimer, beckoning them to enter. Mortimer was surprised that the president and the guards even dared allow a citizen to sit next to such an important person inside a small enclosed space, but he was welcomed by the kind gesture anyway.

The inside of the vehicle was quite nice. The walls were black and metallic, the roof lights glistening in the shiny paint job. The chairs were soft and bouncy, but he didn't dare bounce on one. He didn't want to look like a child-- oh, wait. He was a child. But he couldn't act like one around the president. The guy expected Mortys to act like adults as if he wasn't a Morty himself.

He placed his hands neatly in his lap, staring at the floor. There was a guard sitting next to him, one in front of him, and one in front of the president, who was sitting a few inches away from Mortimer.

Mortimer expected the drive to be quite talkative, but he was mistaken. It was silent the entire journey to the factory. Which is exactly what he didn't want, because he had to be cooped up with his anxious thoughts and aching stomach.

The main reason why he didn't want to go is the pure fact that no one _ever_ leaves the factory. It becomes your home once you're hired; it's a worker's prison. Mortimer already felt like he was trapped on this godforsaken Citadel and he didn't need another layer of prison walls surrounding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo, sorry if the time between updates is kinda slow, i (might have) procrastinated on this chapter a lot, and sometimes just ignored it to play online with mates lmao. not to sound greedy, but comments and kudos are appreciated. it really fuels a writer, y'know? anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter y'all!! <3


	4. The Factory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rizard and Rishy are taken to the factory where a very specific someone is waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fixed the beginning. for some reason, and i don't know how i didn't notice, an entire part was missing. it's literally what makes the chapter make sense and it wasn't even fucking there. anyway, i rewrote it because i lost the original. it'll help make the chapter,, make actual s e n s e

It all happened so fast. Only a mere hour ago. Rizard was hiding in the alleyway, worried for the next day, and as soon as he fell asleep, a group of guards ambushed him and dragged him out of the alleyway. They found Rishy, too. 

The guards made no hesitation into shoving them into the back of a cargo ship and sending their asses to what could only be the factory.

Rishy sat next to Rizard in the cargo ship but was definitely making sure he was a certain distance away. Far away enough so he didn't have to talk or hear the other breathing. Rishy stared at the floor the entire time. He was mad, Rizard could tell. He never made eye contact with his friend, never spoke or replied, just remained silent with a dark expression covering his face.

The guards sitting with them were just as silent.

The ground beneath their feet was rumbling lightly as the ship flew to the factory, the engines humming and bringing at least a valuable noise other than silence into the tight space.

The ship suddenly jerked violently, sending Rishy falling to the floor. He fell on his back, sitting up and groaning. Rizard, carefully with kind eyes, held his scaled hand out for Rishy to use to get back on the chair. The fallen man ignored it as if it wasn't there and climbed back onto the seat himself, blocking out Rizard again.

The lizard man didn't attempt to interact with his friend after that. He had the right to be mad as much as Rizard had the right to feel guilty. He shouldn't have gone back to Rishy. He's the reason he's on this ship with him. Going back was a selfish mistake and Rizard had no way of taking it back. Ever.

The ride went by silently and painfully, well, at least for Rizard it did.

\---

The factory up close was like standing in front of the gates of Hell. Each tower that grew from the group of buildings were like sharp spikes jutting from the floor, reaching up to the 'sky', threatening to burst through the glass dome. Red lights flashed whenever inside processes were in motion, keeping any who saw them on their toes. The entrance to the place was unknown to the citizens, hidden within an underground tunnel.

The gigantic piped factory stood as tall as a skyscraper, looming over any puny humanoids that were unlucky enough to be within in the general vicinity. Each pipe protruding from different segments of the factory puffed big bouts of black smoke. The smoke couldn't escape into the vacuum of space, so it simply wafted around in its bubble prison, polluting the air and keeping the entire citadel murky and gloomy. The closer you were to the factory, the harder it became to breathe, and sometimes it was because of the fear that wracked one's soul more rather than the smoke pollution.

Four Citadel guards urged their prisoners forward; a half-fish man and a half-reptilian man.

Whatever entrance they took, it definitely wasn't the front door. It was a double sized door that opened from the bottom but obviously wasn't tall or large enough to be a factory's official entrance. They were led through a dark corridor with only a few dim lights scattered around the darkening white walls. The gaps of each panel in the walls looked as if they were leaking; black gunk staining the white metal.

The factory had a different colour scheme to the rest of the citadel. It was almost completely black on the outside, but a grungy white on the inside. The change of scenery wasn't pleasant.

They came to a stop in front of a huge pair of sliding doors. A guard typed in a password in the keypad next to the door and they opened up slowly, screeching loudly as they did.

On the other side was a cell. When they entered the room, they found that they were actually in a seemingly endless room that was lined with prison cells.

Each one was full of Ricks, and hell, _even Mortys._

Some had their faces pressed against the steel bars, some had their arms hanging out as they were pressed against it by the overflowing capacity of the cell.

Dry blood splatters marked the floors and walls. They had all gone a putrid black from the long amount of time they'd been sitting there and drying out, and Rishy spotted a fresher blood splat near a cell. It looked like someone got his head bashed against the wall quite a few times. Rishy didn't dwell on it for long, his attention snatched by the new smell wafting through his nose.

He cringed, gagged and coughed. His stomach was pulling at his throat, begging to release its contents, but a firm 'NO' from his brain made sure his lunch stayed down.

The smell was exactly like Rizard explained it. It reeked. It was like every bodily fluid mixed into one horrible stench. He literally felt like vomiting, and God, he could definitely smell vomit somewhere around the place.

He didn't want to be locked up in here. Anywhere but this place.

The guards kept moving and the prisoners followed. When Rishy realised they were exiting the room, hope filled his heart, but he remembered that he was still going to be turned into an emotionless killing machine sooner or later. Sometimes, he really wondered if the chips actually worked or if it was just a Ricks imagination, forcing them to believe their sick lies because Ricks were already emotionless killing machines. A shitty manipulator chip wouldn't change that in the slightest.

Rishy found himself in an elevator. It went up quickly, dinging when it came to its stop. The doors opened, revealing a large room with a long dining table in the centre with tall chairs surrounding it. The room was towering, the cathedral ceiling arching up to what some may call the sky. At the very end of the room stood a single figure: a boy dressed in a black suit. He was facing the window of his room with a glass in his hand. He took a sip from it in silence.

"Sir." The guard alerted the boy of their presence.

"Oh." The boy turned around. The first thing Rishy recognised was the red tie adorning his black suit, and his heart sunk.

The president.

"You requested the escapee and the traitor?"

The president nodded, a sly smile crossing his plush lips. His brown hair was just like any Morty's, just slightly combed back. Rishy couldn't help but notice the odd stain on his suit. It was darker than the clothing itself, and the man knew that it was blood.

"Yes. Stay by the doors, I don't want any trouble in here."

The guards let go of the two men and stood by the door.

"Come," Morty patted a seat. "Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable," the president’s monotonous voice was quivering with the slightest hint of emotion, but his eyes were void of anything, just soulless blue orbs. Both Ricks felt uncomfortable under the gaze. There was something wrong about this Morty, tremendously wrong. Rishy felt like everything was wrong; like something awful was just waiting around the corner. Rishy wanted the eyes to stop staring, but they seemed to be trained on him especially, and even through the emotionless void, he could see hatred and disgust brimming.

The Ricks didn't make a sound. They ambled to their seats, sitting down slowly and feeling panic build in their hearts.

"I'm giving you permission to speak, but don't abuse it." The president placed his glass on the metallic surface on the table, leaning back into his chair and entwining his fingers together like an evil genius. He was starting to become less horrifying as Rishy realised the kid was still a Morty at heart, just a little lost and broken.

Or so he believed.

"So, Lizard Rick... You're special. You're the first Rick to escape this place. Congratulations."

Rizard couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

"I'm going to be nice and give you an option since you seem like a smart Rick. Dumb Ricks are sent to the slaughter, but you're different."

Rizard sighed. No, he wasn't smarter than other Rick, it was because he _was_ different, meaning he had scales that rejected the chip. He didn't say anything as to not upset or anger the president.

"I'm willing to give you a chance to try and escape this place one more time."

Rizard's heart skipped a beat. "Wait, what?"

Morty nodded. "Mhm, how 'bout that? You up for it?"

Rizard went to say 'yes' but hesitated. He needed more information first.

"I need more information about this deal before I do anything."

The Morty lightly chuckled. It was weird hearing something cheerful come out of a supposed emotionless demon. "Ask away!"

"Can Rishy come with me?" He pointed at his friend in case the nickname was too unfamiliar for Morty to pick up. Of course, his mind went straight to thinking Morty was an idiot. This Morty was far from stupid.

"Maybe."

Rishy felt his stomach drop. That maybe was more of a 'no' than a 'maybe'.

"What happens if I'm caught?"

"Run away if the guards see you, and if they catch you, they're either going to kill you or taser you. It depends if they know about the challenge or not."

Rizard didn't like this. He had the same uncertain ache in his stomach last time back at Ricktown, or what was left of it, and then wound up here. He really wanted to trust his gut this time around.

"What happens when I escape?"

"You will have the chip and brand removed and you can live a normal life." He wasn't lying. This was a literal offer. _Maybe the bastard wasn't so heartless after all._

It took a little hesitation before he could say the deal-settling words, but he finally came to the only logical conclusion. "Fine. I accept."

Morty clapped his hands together, beaming a pearly white smile. "Great! Lemme take care of one more thing before you get started."

It happened too fast for anyone to register. Rishy didn't expect to have a gun pulled on him. Before he could react, he felt a searing hot pain in his head as a laser drilled itself into his flesh. His brain was obliterated as it tore through the pink organ, exiting the back of his head in a bloody mess.

His vision went black quick. He stopped breathing right after.

Rizard screamed, watching as his friend's corpse flung back in its position on the chair, before falling forward and hitting the table with a disgustingly moist thud. Droplets of a crimson liquid flicked onto the table and leaked from the wound. The heat from the laser itself cauterized the wound and stopped the bleeding, but the carnage had already been done.

"Fuck! What the fuck!" Rizard was out of his seat, ready to run, but the guards pulled their guns on him and he froze. He may have been traumatised by guns now after observing that brutal scene play out.

"Sorry about that--" the voice made Rizard cringe-- "he was a traitor. He didn't escape, he just helped hide you." Morty blew the smoke from the tip of his weapon and snuck it back into his suit. He smiled like nothing had happened. Rizard felt like he was going insane.

"Anyway, my guards will take you to the starting point." He waved. "Have fun."

The guards grabbed Rizard and took him back to the elevator, just before he heard Morty's voice call out, "one last thing, I'm giving you a Morty. He'll be down there waiting for you." And with that, they were in the elevator again, but just before the doors shut, Rizard saw the president pulling an eyepatch over his face while two cords hung from his eye. Before Rizard could even register what he was doing, the elevator doors shut close and started their descent to the start of Rizard's nightmare.

He couldn't get Rishy's dead corpse out of his head. It was like a looped video, playing over and over again while the guilt grew bigger and bigger. He knew the guilt was going to be the death of him one day if he somehow escaped from the factory.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, its doors opening to reveal the seemingly endless corridor of cell bars and desperately grasping hands. Rizard cringed inwardly.

A guard grabbed his wrist violently and pulled him to a cell. This wasn't new, this was just like the first time he was here. The guard unlocked the door with a key (the old fashioned way) and shoved Rizard inside, locking it up after. Luckily, the cell wasn't as compacted as the others and wasn't completely encumbered by others, but he could only move with arm within a radius of 50 centimetres without touching another Rick-- or the single Morty. There was only one Morty locked in the cell with him and he was looking up at Rizard with big, sad eyes. Rizard didn't have it in him to care. He may have been one of those rare Ricks to outwardly show his affection and care for his grandchildren and family, but this wasn't one of those times. He was mad, upset and his head was throbbing as if there was a monstrous insect trying to burrow its way out of his skull.

He glared at the kid, sending him a hateful scowl and a reptilian hiss. The Morty whimpered and looked away immediately, tears welling in his blue eyes. Rizard didn't care.

The guards were still at the cell door. When one of them laughed (it was an insulting laugh) Rizard realised that these fuckers hadn't been chipped. He should have noticed the lack of the chip on their necks, but he was too busy looking anywhere other than the guards to notice. Rizard hated them more knowing that they were doing this without having to be brainwashed. What sick freaks, but then again, what Rick isn't a sick freak?

"Don't be so mean to Morty. After all, that's the one you're escaping with," the guard that laughed stated, dangling the jumble of keys on his index finger.

All the other Ricks in the cage stared at Rizard. They weren't pleased with the news. One growled softly.

The Morty glanced up from the floor, sneaking a look at Rizard with genuine confusion.

"A Rick will be here when the lights are out. He'll give you a set of keys that will unlock the cage, and you and your Morty are the only ones allowed to leave. No one else, or you'll be killed even if you do manage to escape. The guards patrolling the area are chipped and follow a strict set path." He leaned closer to the cell bars. "Tip from me, try and memorise the patrol path so you escape without getting caught. If they catch you escaping from the cell, you're dead." He backed away and fixed his suit, clearing his throat. He left without another word, the other guards following behind him.

Rizard and his new Morty shared looks, but Rizard's eyes this time were the ones that grew wide.

He didn't have a good look at the Morty last time, but now he noticed the difference with this one compared to the 'normal' Mortys.

The boy had small spikes protruding from his shoulders. They were relatively small, only about an inch high each. His hands were almost completely black, and the colour gradient stopped just below his elbow. It was like he put his arm in a bucket of black paint and never washed it off. His neck had black veins, just slightly visible, but Rizard had a feeling they were more than veins. They littered his neck, but they definitely weren't injuries of any kind, just weird veins that stemmed off more than a normal human vein. He couldn't help but notice the purple and red marks on his skin that _were_ injuries. And last he noticed the pair of horns growing from his head, they resembled demon horns, but were only two inches high and curved inward.

His black fingers twitched at his side.

"So, I guess I'm your new Rick."

The Morty looked like he was about to cry. There was something wrong with the boy, Rizard could see it in his eyes. Trauma, pain, and suffering. The Morty was absolutely terrified.

"Call me Rizard. Rick gets confusing, and I don't want to be associated with 'myselves' anymore."

Morty trembled. His hands shook and his lips quivered like bristling leaves. He looked like he wanted to speak, but he couldn't say anything. Rizard noticed the bruises that were scattered everywhere on his legs, and through the rips in Morty's clothes, he could make our deeper bruising and scars. There was a scar on his lips like they had been split from being punched. His ear was also damaged, actually, it was split in two; missing an entire half of itself.

Rizard had a feeling this kid used to be in Ricktown, or, what used to be Ricktown. This kid had been locked up a long time, but he was still being beaten. The guards just let Mortys get abused in this place, even sexually assaulted. Rizard remembered having to listen to it for days on end while he was trying to sleep. Constant screaming and sobbing from Mortys and disgusting slurs that should never leave a Rick's mouth. It was hard not to vomit sometimes when he was forced to listen to his grandson get raped by another version of himself.

Rizard knew not to dare touch this Morty or force him to talk. He was going to respect his rights like a normal person should do. But he wasn't going to make it obvious that he cared.

"Alright, the silent type. I can roll with that. Well, your new name is Mortmon since you look like you crawled outta hell. Better get used to it quick, kiddo."

Morty, now Mortmon, nodded and sniffed, wiping his eyes with his arm. He was literally so scared that he had started to cry. At least he wasn't making any annoying sounds. Rizard felt his heart twinge when he realised the kid probably learnt to stay quiet while he cried because making sound usually resulted in brutal beatings and rape, or just made the beatings worse.

He caught the other Ricks in the cage staring at him. They were angry and jealous but mostly pissed off that more space had been taken up.

"Hey, scales, what's with the chip on your neck?" One of them finally asked. Rizard saw Morty move farther away when he processed the sentence.

Rizard glanced over with a glare. "My scales refused the chip's spikes, so I escaped."

The Rick chuckled. His hair was dirty and mattered. An ugly bruise was forming under his eye and his lip had dried blood stained to it. "Fuck man, you must have been the worst at hide-and-seek."

Rizard sighed. No, he just relied on his emotions too much, exactly what Ricks try to avoid. He is a fool.

"Heads up, fuckers. Remember the Rick code of ethics. I did the stupid thing and went back to Ricktown to see my only friend. Now he's dead and I'm stuck here--" he wasn't finished-- "and before you psycho fucks try to get out of here too, just remember that if I do escape, I will do something to stop this goddamn fucking slavery. So don't try and stop me."

His prison mate just chortled. "Yeah, whatever, I don't care. I wanna be chipped anyway."

"Yeah," another Rick added, "without alcohol we're nothing. Being drafted is our only escape, bro."

Rizard's eyes narrowed. "Being a slave of war isn't for fucking fun. Sometimes at least a third of a batch of Ricks are taken somewhere else instead of getting chipped. I don't know where, but it's obviously worse. That could be any one of you," he argued, feeling anger boil in his chest. He didn't know why he was getting so frustrated over this.

"Yeah, and it has a chance of not being one of us either. Get over it."

Rizard gave up. He was just glad these a Ricks hadn't started to beat him up already. He only had to be in here for a few more hours, and then he could begin his escape. Then he realised why the others wanted to be drafted when his stomach started to twist with anxiety.

He really didn't want to escape either. It was frightening to think about, and he had a Morty to look after too. He took a deep breath and sat down, staring out through the bars, waiting for the corridor to go black.

\---

"Lights out!"

Rizard was too busy knocking his head into the bars to care. One by one, the lights died, until the entire corridor was black. He heard a couple of Mortys whimper out of fear and heard some Ricks purely growl in annoyance. No lights meant sleep but no one wanted to sleep. Well, actually, most Ricks and Mortys wanted to sleep, but no one _could_ sleep because the ones that didn't want to sleep kept making noise.

Rizard didn't care about that right now. He stood up and looked back at his Morty, barely making out his frame in the dark abyss. "Psst, Mortmon, come here," he whispered, trying to gain Mortmon's attention. He heard the boy shuffle around on the floor, and a small gasp left his lips. "It's just Rizard. Come closer to the bars."

Relief washed over him when he heard faint shuffling footsteps approaching him. Mortmon stood beside Rizard, however, at a far distance.

"Any second now, a Rick is going to give us a pair of keys. Just stay near so we can get out swift before a patrolling guard comes down here."

Rizard memorised the patrol pattern. As a matter of fact, he already memorised it the first time he was here. It was the only thing to do while you were jammed in a cell full of psychos that didn't talk.

He looked out into the darkness of the hallway in search of a Rick. After a minute passed, he saw a faint silhouette walk from the darkness. It approached slowly, holding something in its hands. Rizard realised it was a Rick as it got closer, and that in his hands were keys.

Rick stopped outside the front of the cell and handed Rizard the keys through the bars. "If you get caught before an hour, I will do worse than simply chip you." The Rick sneered and then left, disappearing into the darkness.

"Wow, no pressure," Rizard mumbled under his breath, fumbling with the key. He needed to figure out what point the guards were up to in their patrol path. He looked outside the cell, noticing two guards walk past. They stopped at the end of the hall and went back to repeat the path. That was them done, and now was the perfect time to bolt.

But before he could do a hint, he had to ask an important question to his Morty.

"Mortmon, I need your consent here. Can I grab your hand? I d-don't want you running off when I try to pull your ass along with me."

Rizard heard a small hum of approval emit from the boy, and honestly, it was the most he's ever heard from him. Without further ado, he unlocked the cell door and latched onto Morty's hand, pulling him out of the cell with him. In a panic, he ran to the door that he and Rishy had entered with. The door required a password on a keypad, so he attempted to input a key code in, but the keypad responded with a short beep and a red flash. He couldn't remember the code the guards put in when he and Rishy were taken here. He may have been the smartest man in the universe, but he sure as hell didn't have a photographic memory.

In his head, he tried to recall what part of the patrol path the sentries would be up to. They should still be walking down the hall, but there was no way he and Morty could run past them without being seen.

He tugged on Mortmon's hand. "We can't go forwards, come here." He ran over with the boy to the end of the hallway they came from, discovering that the elevator was the only thing they could use to hide-- or escape with. With the massive size of the factory, there had to be more than two floors. He dragged Mortmon into the elevator with him and let go of the boy's hand, dragging his own scaled fingers to the elevator buttons. Each button was a rectangular shape and were all exactly the right size to fit their destination name's in.

He was right. There was definitely more than two floors. In total, the factory had ten separate floors within it, all accessible via the elevator (and probably other modes of transport, too).

He read the destinations of each button, trying to find the safest and most desolate sounding place. His eyes went straight to the last floor, seeing that the president's floor was simply named 'President'. He read the rest.

'Cell Room'. Already there. 'Transformation Room'. Rizard felt his soul shake. 'Break Room'. Before he could read anymore, he caught a glimpse of a low light in the dark hallway. Mortmon tugged on his saggy white shirt, obviously noticing the approaching guards as well. Rizard had no time to waste, he just had to wing it. He pressed a random floor number and the doors shut just before the guard's lights could spot them. For once he felt like luck was on his side.

The elevator came to a halt and a quick 'ding!' rang out. Rizard read what floor they were on, finding that they were on some sort of 'Power Floor'.

The doors opened and the first thing they were greeted to was bright light until it dimmed down once the two male's eyes adjusted to it. With an arm shielding his eyes, Rizard peeked into the corridor to make sure no one was around and found the grimy hallway empty. Well, at least this part of the floor was empty. He saw multiple doors on each side of the hallway, along with pipes and wires running down the walls and warning signs sitting above doors. The walls looked like they used to be a pure white, but with all the grease and grime they've collected over the exhausting year, they were now a gloomy grey. The yellow pipe systems were dusty too and they wheezed and groaned as fluids of all sorts were pumped through them. He went to the first door as it looked the least dirty, and opened it with a quick twist of the handle. It was a simple room with white walls (much whiter than the hallway), a few monitors with random garbage hard light displays, and boards depicting graphs. There was another board on the wall with a series of images and notes plastered all over it, and it caught Rizard's attention greatly. Without a thought, he wandered over to the board, ignoring the shaking Mortmon.

He inspected the board, noticing a great deal of the word 'Experiment' being used. There were images of countless Ricks strapped to chairs or held up by chains, either dead or dying-- both in cruel ways. Then he saw a photo in the middle of the board with big bold letters 'IMPORTANT' above it. The photo was that of a Rick with at least three giant mechanical needles impaled inside him, and Rizard cringed at the fact that he was alive and well aware of what was happening. A note was stuck to the image as well, reading the words _"possible power source discovery. Energy extractor. Please discuss with Morty J-231."._

Power source? Energy extractor?

It took a mere second for Rizard to come to the conclusion. Somehow these little bastards discovered a way to extract energy from a living organism. It sounded like sci-fi bullshit, even to a Rick, but the Mortys finally created a machine capable of energy extraction. He was impressed, honestly, but also disgusted by the fucked up nature of the place.

He looked to his side, noticing a large window pane that was fixed across the entire wall. It had a yellow hue but definitely wasn't one-sided. He could see out into a different room and realised in seconds that the room past the glass was the room where the so-called energy extractor stood. Standing closer to the glass, he peered at the large piece of machinery, now just a jumble of wires and flashing lights, and contemplated the thoughts that must race through one's mind when these monster of a machine holds you in the air with robot claws before impaling you with three huge needles. He wanted to see it in action, but he knew he had to work here first, and he was not ready to be apart of that.

Then he heard voices coming from the other side of the door. Morty voices.

"Fuck," he whispered harshly, grabbing Mortmon's wrist. He looked around the room. There was nowhere to hide-- well, except the experiment room with the giant needle machine.

Fuck it.

He pulled Mortmon along with him as he ran to the door and found that it required a hand scan. He quickly placed his Morty's hand onto the scanner to unlock it, feeling his breath release with relief as it beeped and opened. He ran inside with Mortmon, hiding behind a huge cell of some sort of fluid. He was glad the room was dark, but the red glow of the room, however, made him feel like they could be spotted easier.

The door closed thankfully, and after a few seconds, Rick saw one of the Mortys on the other side of the window. He was looking at something else, then picked up a clipboard, examining it. He noticed another Morty and then another. Three of them in total, all wearing lab coats, but one with a pair of glasses and one with a bowl cut.

The voices were drained out by the loud humming of the machine and were muffled by the wall between them. Rizard was interested in what they were saying, but he was definitely worried that they were going to use the energy extractor. He did say he wanted to see it in action, but he didn't wanna be this close to it while so.

The 'glasses' Morty went up to the monitor and inputted a command of some sort because the next thing Rizard heard was an automated voice calling over the loudspeakers in the room.

_"Test ready to commence. Please stand by."_

Oh fuck.

The door opened and out came a handcuffed Rick in an orange jumpsuit. Morty was behind him, pushing him into the room.

"Hurry up, grandpa. You don't want to miss this energising display!" He zapped him with a cattle prod, laughing as his victim squirmed and yelped. He pushed Rick again, making sure he tumbled right into the middle of the room. When he stood up again, Morty was already back inside the white room with the door shut.

"This is abuse of human rights!" He screamed, but the Mortys didn't listen. With a press of a button, a robot claw extended from the ceiling and encumbered Rick in its metal digits and pulled him into the air. His legs were kicking at the air as he struggled and squirmed, but the unforgiving machine wouldn't let him go.

A loud mechanical whirr echoed around the red room as three huge arms unfolded from the body of the machine, revealing big needles on the end of each arm.

"NO!" He pleaded desperately as the tips glared at him with silver-plated mockery.

His cries were silenced with yet another mechanical whirr as the arms struck forward, digging their long tips into flesh with a disgusting wet rip. A piercing shriek left Rick's lips as a single needle dug into his chest. Blood leaked from the wound, seeping from the edges of the silver blades. Another buzz emitted from the death-machine as two red lasers scanned the body of its victim to determine where his arms were. It beeped and homed in on its targets, driving the tips of two needles into his biceps with a vicious metal screech.

The machine came to life, its low hum now an almost-deafening screech as the Rick was emptied of his energy. The machine fed on chemicals: adrenaline, hormones, energy, etc. It converted the chemicals into a usable power source through a complex process, and Rizard realised what the cell he was hiding behind contained.

Ricks body shook violently as the needles extracted his contents, and Rizard discovered that the machine was actually electrifying its prey as it consumed his insides. Cooked flesh and singed skin became the most prominent smell as his body started to cook and writhe. Agonising screams turned into garbled groans as his mouth started to pool with blood. It trickled down his chin and jaws as he drowned in the crimson liquid, spewing it up in a vibrant shower of red as his body jolted with electricity.

Soon the sounds died, and Rick's body was left scorched and emaciated. The needles extracted themselves from the corpse and folded in on themselves once again, hiding against the body of the machine. The claw dropped the body, letting it fall to the ground with a loud thud and crack.

Blood trickled from the three wounds and pooled from his hanging jaws. His nose bled profusely and his eyes and ears did too. It was a disgusting sight, but all Rizard could hear was the scientist Mortys cheering.

He had a feeling the Rick deserved it, but he still felt fury boil in his chest, this was wrong. Very wrong.

The automated voice alerted again. "Test complete. Energy successfully extracted."

Another round of cheers came from the three Mortys. Even through the wall and whirr of the machine, he made out a single sentence, something along the lines of 'the president will finally promote us!'. Rizard hated the fact that these Mortys only wanted to be higher in the ranks. They probably didn't even care about their work. They were Mortys anyway, the kids surely didn't actually enjoy creating machines and designing projects.

A minute passed and the Mortys left the room. Their voices faded until they were no longer in Rizard's range of hearing, so he decided that it was safe to leave the room.

When he looked back at Mortmon, he noticed that the boy's shakiness had definitely grown, but he had an indistinguishable glint of glee in his eyes. He was peeking over the cell, still staring at the dead Rick.

Rizard tugged on his arm and the boy gasped. "You're creeping me out. Come on, let's go." The boy simply nodded, following the lizard-Rick and opening the door with his handprint again. They trekked into the hallway, Rizard ignoring the loud cries in his head that what he was doing was dangerous. Of course, anyone could walk into the hallway and see them, but his mind was too clouded with other thoughts to think straight. The other cries he could hear was the distant screams of agony that bled through the walls. They sounded like moans you would most likely hear in Hell if he ever believed in the place. They dragged on, eventually dying only to have new screams replace the former ones. The floor seemed to shake under his feet as many different types of machinery were set to use. Even their deathly mechanical whirrs and groans managed to echo down the long corridor.

"Sorry about that w-whole fiasco, Mortmon. That's on me. I don't-- I don't _know_ where the s-stupid fucking exit is. It's not on the first floor, and none of the other floors seem to be named 'exit'. I think... we have to go through each floor separately."

Mortmon sighed and shook his head.

"No?"

Mortmon shook his head again.

Rizard didn't know what the boy meant. He just wished he would talk. "You know, you can speak to me. I'm not here to hurt you like those other dickhead Ricks."

The boy looked up at him with big eyes, just like the first time they met. They seemed to be saying 'really?'. Mortmon looked as if he wasn't sure if it was safe to talk to any Rick.

"Seriously, I'd be less angry if you talked. Y-y-your voice isn't going to annoy me, you're my grandson. I stutter too, y'know."

Rizard felt like it was totally different entity speaking when he heard the squeaky voice push past the former mute's lips. His voice was much raspier than the average Morty. "R-R-Rick?"

He smiled gently. "Yeah?"

"I d-don't speak because it hurts my throat," he stated in a husky tone.

Rizard gave him a puzzled look.

"Y-you wanna know why? Because you _sick_ fucking old pricks love to shove all different sorts of things down my throat!" He coughed, poking a finger into Rizard's chest. "Get this is your head: _I. Don't. Like. You._." Each of his last words had their own singular poke to Rizard's chest.

If he didn't have an accusing finger poking at his chest, the only pain he would be able to feel was the ache in his heart.

"...Sorry, Morty."

Silence fell over them. Mortmon was back to being mute.

"We should probably go."

Mortmon nodded and followed Rizard into the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet, hope u enjoyed and i hope u cried (why would you cry?? no one knows). and look at me posting another chapter a day after the last, weird, right? 
> 
> anyway, once again, not to sound greedy or anything, but comments are highly appreciated. they make us writers feel happy and cry tears of joy :'D love y'all, stay rad *gay finger guns*


	5. Dark Laboratories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The president welcomes Mortimer to his new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is set just after chapter 3, so it's a direct carry-on. after this chapter, everything will be in order, i hope. i will start writing them so they're easier to understand because i realised i kinda fucked up lmao.

Mortimer couldn't see out the windows of the vehicle. They were much too dark. So, he couldn't see how or where they entered from, which drastically reduced his chances of escaping.

When the exited the car, the first thing he noticed was the size of the room they were in. Not only did they suddenly end up inside the building instead of a car park, but the roof of the room was so high that Mortimer couldn't even see it. The foggy atmosphere of the factory made it hard to see a mere few meters in front of you, so he didn't have much luck with seeing the rest of the room, either.

He glanced around the room best he could, grimacing at the disgusting texture of the white grimy walls and rusting pipe systems. Just between the walkway and the wall of the room was a grate instead of a floor, and various pipelines danced beneath the grating, all glowing a faint blue from the liquids flowing through them.

The president was walking a few inches in front of him as Mortimer followed behind, a couple of guards watching both their backs. He led them to an elevator, in which he set the destination for the "Laboratories". The elevator went up fast, letting out a loud 'ding' when it hit the top. The doors opened and revealed a white hallway with sets of doors on either side of the corridor. It was probably the nicest place he's seen in the building, even if he's only been in two areas. The industrial lights on the ceiling looked brand new, but some of the grime dirtying the plastic cover of it made the light look grungy and dim on the wall. Near one door was a yellow cleaning sign, warning that the floor was wet and slippery. There were cleaning supplies, complete with a bucket, mop and sprays. When Morty walked pass, he found that the water was stained a red hue, and his gut wrenched.

"So, do you know why I chose you?" The president's sharp voice cut him from his thoughts.

Mortimer shook his head with wide eyes. "No, sir."

President Morty smiled slightly, letting the corner of his lips lift with amusement. "When I looked into your eyes, I saw myself, it was nearly a complete reflection, and I was gobsmacked."

 _Complete reflection?_ Jeez, Mortimer knew he was a bad person but he never imagined a literal "space Hitler" finding him relatable.

"Your eyes showed me suffering and torment. You've suffered greatly because of Ricks, am I correct?"

Mortimer nodded softly and replied with a quiet whisper. "Yes, sir."

"I thought so. So, why'd you become a surgeon?"

Oh, yeah, so he could torture random Ricks while trying to cure diseases, test products, or perform experiments. You know, the normal. His Rick taught him how to conduct experiments on live subjects when he was only 10 years old; it didn't work out so well, obviously.

Mortimer couldn't lie, he had to say the absolute truth. The president was smart; way too smart. He would find out and Mortimer would be next in line to get experimented on, or something even worse.

He started spluttering out his words without even thinking. "I wanted to work as a surgeon so I could perform experiments on Ricks without using anaesthetic so I could hear their screams. I know it's probably illegal, but it helped me cope since my Rick used to rape and hit me. Oh, and he also forced me to torture aliens by surgically removing their organs while they were awake, so that was also a major problem for me." Fuck, he wasn't supposed to say that much. He was so scared to lie, that he just ended up blurting out his entire backstory.

The president didn't seem phased. He kept his trademark emotionless expression with dead, jaded eyes. "I have the perfect job for you here. It came up quite recently, too. I came to your workplace for a surgeon, _obviously_ , because one of our top surgeons fell in a vat of acid yesterday so we needed a new one for the experiments we're conducting."

Oh, lovely, a vat of acid and _more_ surgeon work. At least the president allows Mortys to cope by murdering Ricks. That's what the president did himself anyway when he first came into power.

"Interesting."

The president clapped his hands together and looked over his shoulder at Mortimer with a small smile. "I'm glad. We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"Why, the labs, of course! The place where you can perform cruel experiments on those you hate," he said with a grin, and he definitely wasn't joking. Mortimer realised that this place wasn't some normal factory, in fact, something horrible and dark was hidden inside the place. He didn't know why it took him that long to realise that anyway, or maybe, he just had a hunch the whole time but wished it wasn't true.

"Oh, yeah, right..." Mortimer cleared his throat awkwardly. The president was weird. There was something off about him, other than the fact he was practically soulless. He was too happy to be soulless. It just wasn't right. One second, he spoke with a flat voice and lidded eyes, the next, he was chatting with a huge smile. It made Mortimer incredibly uncomfortable.

The president stopped in front of a white door, one that looked bigger and different from any other in the hallway, and maybe just a tad cleaner, too. The door was opened with the click of a button, and on the other side revealed a white room full of Mortys and Ricks draped in lab coats while bent over tables working on things. Some of them titled their heads to check out who was entering and didn't seem to be fazed by the President's presence, but they were definitely curious about Mortimer. They cocked their brows or glared in puzzlement, but most just looked away being uninterested or bored by the situation.

"This is your new home."

Mortimer didn't know why those simple five words affected him so harshly because before he knew it, he felt like doubling over and spewing when a horrible sharp sensation in his gut started to torment him like a pair of hungry demons. It was the sense of dread and terror; those two demons were the ones tugging at his heartstrings and punching his gut, making him feel sick as a dog. His heart wrenched while he stomach felt like it was performing gymnastic stunts inside him, yet he stood still and faked a painful smile.

"Looks homey." It didn't. It seriously didn't.

He noticed a glass jar of a greenish fluid that had a pair of babies floating inside it. One baby was a Morty, the other a Rick. The disgusting thing about it though was the fact that they had been stitched together. Their stomachs weren't stitched together, no, each half of their bodies were sewn together, and it looked like a horrific hybrid experiment from a horror movie.

There were all sorts of jars with different human body parts or organs floating around in the greenish fluid, actually. There were scientists inside the room literally performing experiments on dismembered heads, poking at their brains with scalpels and metal chips. The chips looked familiar, sort of like the devices he saw installed onto Citadel guard's necks. Curiosity washed over him before his attention was snatched by the president, who seemed very excited to show Mortimer around the place.

"Follow me to your workbench, and please don't be creeped out by the fact that you're using a dead man's workplace. I know how you Mortys are--"

There. There it is again. The president has the tendency to forget he's a Morty too.

He followed the suited boy to an abandoned workbench, one that was littered with surgical tools, papers, pens and faded blood stains. They were so faint they were hardly noticeable, but Mortimer had seen too many blood stains just like them that he picked up on them within an instant. His neighbouring surgeon or scientist was a Rick wearing a pair of glasses with dull blue hair, much duller than the usual Rick's. He looked older than most, too, but it was just the dark eye bags and stress lines marking his face that made him appear that way. He glared at Mortimer, and he noticed Rick's name (dimension) tag.

'T-371.'

Mortimer didn't greet himself, he just glared back. He looked to his other side, noticing his other neighbour was a Morty. The Morty was working on a brain, implanting one of those chips into the pink flesh. He caught Mortimer staring and looked over to him. Suddenly, one of the biggest grins Mortimer has ever seen spread across the boy's face, and his eyes almost seemed to glimmer with joy.

"Howdy! I'm Morty!" His voice was too happy; too loud. He held his hand for Mortimer to shake. He took it hesitantly with a placid (albeit faked) smile.

"Hey... I'm-- uh, Mortimer." He looked at the crazy Morty's dimension name tag.

'S-335.' Probably the dimension full of psychos.

"Leave him alone, S-335," the president murmured, pointing at the decapitated head on his workbench. The Morty sighed loudly, but listened to his boss, going back to prodding the brain pointlessly.

Mortimer was glad the president intervened. He didn't know how much longer he could have taken that conversation.

"Sorry about that. Anyway, all the equipment and tools should be on the tray under your desk or somewhere around here. I don't know, this place is way too messy. You'll be working with S-335, unfortunately. Just wait for the results and then I'll assign you your first job."

_So much information, so little time._

Mortimer nodded. "Seems easy enough."

The president smiled and patted his shoulder. "What's your dimension name? I need to make you a name tag."

"G-575."

"Alright, nice. Expect the tag soon. Goodbye, for now, don't let me down, soldier."

Mortimer replied with a weak head nod and watched until the president left the room. He sighed loudly, turning back to his desk and slamming his head into it. Luckily there was a chair for him to sit on at least. He had to sit here for ages with a crazy fucker next to him and some random Rick. Why a Rick of all people?

"So..."

Oh no.

"You new?" S-335 asked, once again distracted from his work.

Mortimer sighed heavily. "Mhm," he mumbled into the table as his head rested on his arms.

"Cool! I remember when I was new... Scary. It was much different then. Didn't smell so bad."

Now that he mentioned it, he did notice the profound aroma surrounding the room. It wasn't difficult to recognize, and it definitely wasn't a pleasant smell either. It was rotting flesh, lots of different chemicals, and the thick stench of iron. Whenever he tried to take deep breaths with his nose, he felt a sharp stinging sensation and a nauseous jab to his gut.

"It's nice that you're here. The other Morty died in a vat of acid. He was a good friend, it was sad to him all bloody and broken. Oh jeez, I'm getting emotional just thinking about it." He sniffled, and Mortimer cringed. This guy was embarrassing to talk to. S-335 suddenly beamed again as if he was never sad. "I hope you'll be my new best friend!"

_I don't._

"Yeah... Sure."

Morty beamed a wide smile again, almost hiding the pain in his eyes and the big black bags under them. "Ooh jeez! I should probably get back to work." As if he was never even talking, he went back to his assigned job, completely ignoring Mortimer.

G-575 closed his eyes and almost started to sob, but he kept them down his throat. He had to get used to his dimension name since he had a feeling no one was going to call him 'Mortimer' now. He was new to this place. He wasn't known as "Mr Grumpy Pants'; the one person you don't talk to or annoy. No one here knew that Mortimer was quiet because of past traumas. He was completely and utterly fucked.

So he decided to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the shorter chapter. it was for a legitimate reason :'D


	6. so Close yet so Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rizard and Mortmon find a chance to escape, and Mortimer learns the dark truth about the factory he has been forced to live within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! i had writer's block for a while :/  
> anyway, i know exactly what im doing with this fanfiction now, and im also going to shorten the chapters so they're both quicker to produce and easier to follow. they should be about 2000+ words longer, now. enjoy!

Rizard didn't exactly think his plan through when he set the elevator in destination for the 'Control Central'. They were already going up when he realised that the doors were going to open up to a bunch of workers. It was obvious; so very obvious, and he wondered why the president thought he was smart in the first place.

So in the best effort he could, he hid Mortmon behind him and stood stoically just behind the doors, ready for them to pry open and reveal a wave of angry workers.

The elevator's normally placid 'ding' instead sent shivers down his spine.

As if the world was in slow motion, the doors slid open with a groan, revealing-- oh.

Rizard's eyes met with a single pair of eyes identical to his own (well, almost, he was a lizard after all), and he almost laughed. He was worried over one guard, one that didn't even have a gun in his holster and looked more afraid of the escapes than they were of him.

"Fuck! How the hell did you get out?" The guard shouted in a panic, his voice trembling. When he reached for his gun, a look of dismay and terror crossed his face. He knew the prisoner had already picked up on the fact that he was unarmed, and his heart skipped a beat. "Shit... Look, I won't tell anyone you're here, just please don't kill me."

A Rick? Begging for mercy? There was no way he keeping the sick fuck alive.

"What are you, the Mortiest Rick?" Rizard ignored Mortmon's annoyed flash and resumed glaring at his enemy instead.

"Fuck you-- fuck _me_. I'll kill you with my bare fucking hands if I have to." The threat didn't go unnoticed. He brought his fists up to his chest, ready to strike Rizard if he made a move. Rizard didn't feel threatened, not by a Rick as pathetic as him.

"Yeah, sure," Rizard mocked, bringing out fists of his own. "Let's duel, bitch."

The guard charged and lunged at Rizard, throwing a punch but Rizard blocked it with his forearm. It stung, but the pain was the least of his worries right now. He struck the guard on the side of his head, bashing him hard enough that he fell to the ground in a squirming pile of groans. Rizard's scales always doubled the brute force of his fists, it also cut flesh sometimes, so it really added to the impact of his punches.

Before the guard could return to his feet, Rizard stomped on his skull with the heel of his shoe. He continued to pummel his head in with his foot until the skull started to shatter and jagged shards of bone jutted through the flesh. The head was turning to a bloody paste beneath him as brain matter oozed from his ears and a pool of blood formed under his deformed head. Rizard didn't know what was so satisfying about crushing his own skull, but it definitely kept a smile on his face while doing so. When the guard was well past dead, Rizard stopped stomping and took a second to breathe and unwind. Red strings of flesh dangled from the base of his shoe as he lifted it from the carnage.

"Oh, how lovely." Despite the obvious sarcasm in his tone, he meant what he said.

With a quick glance back at Mortmon, he noticed the boy was cowering in the corner, staring at the body with big startled eyes. Rizard was puzzled. Mortmon wasn't fazed by the other brutal death of a Rick; he had even smiled back then.

"What the fuck is up with you? Help me strip this guard and stop cowering like a pussy," Rizard hissed, getting down on his knees and pulling the corpse's white robe off.

Mortmon, fearing for his life and Rizard's sanity, slowly crept toward the body and helped strip him of his clothes. With all the clothes to the side and the naked deformed body shoved into a room comprised of flashing lights and computer systems, Rizard changed out of his own apparel and donned the dead Citadel guard's white robes and his foreboding golden badge.

"How do I look?"

Mortmon faked a weak smile as he trembled. He kept silent, as per usual, and just nodded timidly.

"Good, I'll be posing as a guard in this hellhole, and you're my prisoner. So don't overreact if I punch you in the gut, alright?" Rizard adjusted the sleeves of the robe with a blank expression.

Mortmon hummed in approval, shuffling uncomfortably. Rizard grabbed him forcefully and pulled him in front of him. "Walk."

And he did walk. He ambled along like a prisoner in chains, feeling the unsettling presence of his 'grandfather' behind him. There was something wrong with Rizard. Mortmon could sense it, see it in his eyes; hear it in his voice. He didn't want to be with this Rick for much longer. He didn't want to be caught in the aftermath when the elder would finally snap. It wasn't too long until it would happen either, he has witnessed it firsthand. Actually, every Morty in Ricktown had witnessed it; forced to watch as former grandfathers became merciless, deranged, maniacs, that only wanted Mortys to feel their wrath and seething hatred. He couldn't say he blamed them. The president was just an alternative version of the very same Ricks and brought down the same misfortunes onto the Rick civilians that were just trying to survive.

The two approached a large door labelled: "Control Room". Wires crept under the door. No glass was present on the door, it was just a flat, white colour, with a single industrial light in the centre.

"We're almost out, Morty. Almost."

Mortmon couldn't help but cringe. He didn't like being called that. He has heard too many filthy mouths say it; mouths that intended to harm him in the worst possible ways.

\---

The elevator reached its destination in seconds, but it felt like years. Mortimer rested against the wall, waiting for the sad 'ding' of the lift to enlighten him.

What should have come in milliseconds had a million year delay to his ears. The lift finally reached its destination, but he sighed harshly when his co-worker's much-too-happy voice reverberated down his ear canals. The voice went in a 'ping-pong' pattern in his head, beating against the walls of his brain on a regular basis.

"Oh! This is gonna be so much fun!"

"I beg to differ," Mortimer grumbled, standing up straight from the wall he once laid on as the doors opened.

"Don't be such a grumpy pants--" Mortimer's heart ached at the nickname-- "it's gonna be fun, trust me!"

He groaned but dismissed it, not wishing to start something with the boy. S-335 realised he went silent and smiled in response. He left the elevator with Mortimer following behind. They were in the conversion room, which apparently, as S-335 explained, was where the prisoners went to get 'converted into mindless killing machines'. Mortimer was curious to what the conversion process was like, and his questions were soon to be answered.

His brain spiralled into an endless pit of confusion when his eyes caught sight of the room. It was so bland, the walls were almost completely black, and the only thing in the room that was visible from Mortimer's point of view was a cubicle, about 5x5 in size, sat dead in the middle. It was connected to the floor and ceiling, and there was a sliding door just big enough for a Rick to pass through at the front. It was the same colour as the rest of the room: a dark, grungy metal. Wires hung around the top of the cubicle, jumbled up like a drunk spider's web. Pipes joined the sides and connected to the floor, pumping who knows what through them.

A low hum of piping haunted the room, as well as the buzz of machinery. Rumbling from other levels in the facility shook the room gently.

There was a line of Ricks queuing up. There were three Mortys in the line, strangely enough. When they noticed the two workers enter, fear bubbled in their eyes.

"Just come through here," S-335 requested, pushing into the line and walking through the door himself with Mortimer behind him. He pulled a Rick in with him and tossed him into the chair within the cubicle.

A mechanical arm that hung from the ceiling stared Mortimer straight in the eyes. It owned a small claw that held a manipulator chip. S-335 reached up and opened a hatch on the machine, disabling it.

"See, what we're doing here is minimising the chance for someone to escape. The chips sometimes don't connect to the neck properly, and most Ricks are smart enough to escape. Remember that brain I was working on?"

Mortimer nodded. His crazy co-worker sounded serious for once and it sent chills up his spine.

"The chips have been designed to latch onto the brain and emit a signal into it. It doesn't cause damage, however, we need to test if this new batch actually works, first. Which is our job right now."

Rick tensed up and he sent a fearful glance at S-335. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Morty ignored him and replaced the neck chip the machine was holding with a new brain chip. He went back to the opened hatch on the machine and wrote in a code number, assigning the code to the mechanical arm. It was a code that was designed purely for Rick brain surgeries. He commenced the task, enabled the bot and closed the hatch, and grabbed Rick's shoulders, keeping him still.

"Hold him still!"

Mortimer went to the other side and held his head, which ultimately kept his head in place. Rick started to struggle, and his bigger size bested the Mortys within seconds, not until the chair finally did its job. Bonds erupted from the armrests and clipped around Rick's wrists, bonds also wrapped themselves around his ankles, chest and then clamps pushed against his temples, keeping his head entirely still. A roar tore from his throat and he attempted to struggle to no avail.

"Fuck you! Fuck Mortys! You yellow shirt bastards!"

The laser silenced his hurtful words and replaced them with screams. The red beam dug into his flesh and proceeded to carve right around his scalp until it met back with its origin. The machine began to assign another arm that then peeled off the skin and simply threw it away. S-335 didn't code the disposal of the skin as of yet. The laser started up again, burning into the skull with ease. The smaller arm removed the loose bone and tossed it away. The main arm came to life as it lowered itself down into the open head, bringing the chip of impending doom to his brain. It latched on with ease and beeped; a small, red, pulsing light activating the second it connected. Rick's eyes went wide instantly as a dead look passed his face. He was no longer screaming. He was silent.

"Just an assumption, but I think that worked quite well."

Mortimer's heart was racing; so was his mind. The manipulator chips worked so quick, it was scary. It was actually horrifying watching someone else's entire mind just fade away in an instant. A second ago, his mind was thriving; screaming and begging, and the next-- everything was gone. Memories, thoughts, personality traits and everything that made him who he was. They made him unique to any other Rick, and that uniqueness was stripped away without a single ounce of consent. All gone within the snap of the president's fingers. Mortimer swore he could just hear the president laughing as each of his slaves became mindless warriors under his tyrannous rule.

"Yeah..." He murmured, staring into the lifeless eyes of the silent Rick. He didn't look back at him, just stared straight ahead, and blinked. "I think it worked, too."

For the first time in his life, Mortimer felt bad for a Rick.


	7. control room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ashdfbjsakdfdas sorry for the wait y'all. i couldnt think of anything to write, and tbh, i wrote this weeks ago and haven't changed anything. i just wanted to add something more to make it past 2000 words but i fuckin cant lmao. here you guys go anyway. ill try and get back into writing this fic!!

So many buttons, so many screens. Red lights littered the room, as well as vines of wires hanging from the ceiling, and ventilation systems kept the room cool for the computers and control panels to work efficiently in. Monitors and hard lights screens showed camera surveillance, and Rizard was surprised they hadn't been caught yet by the sheer number of screens. The last time he escaped this place, he just crawled through the vents, but he couldn't do that with Mortmon. At first, he didn't want to leave Mortmon behind, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the kid was given to him just so escaping would be harder, so maybe leaving him behind would be for the better. Hell, the kid could be a robot for all he knew.

But that's not what mattered. What mattered, were the guards inside the room. They glanced over at the two with narrowed eyes. They were definitely suspicious, seeing as a few of them were reaching for their firearms just in case.

"Who the fuck are you?" One of them asked, spinning around in his chair. Seven different sets of eyes stared both Rizard and Mortmon down and he became stressed under their gaze.

"Uh..." _Act casual._ "What does it fucking look like?"

Their suspicion reduced slightly. "You new?"

"Yeah. Boss sent me up here."

"Then what's that Morty doing with you? He's one of the prisoners, isn't he?"

Rizard glanced down at the kid. Mortmon looked back at him with scared eyes; urging him to answer the question before their suspicions grew again.

"Yeah, uh--" he hesitated to think of an excuse-- "the president wanted me to show him around, because, uh, he was thinking of making a prisoner a worker here."

The guards shared looks as if they were discussing something between themselves and suddenly exploded into laughter. Rizard cocked his brow, confused, but offered a weak smile.

"Seriously? A Morty prisoner as a worker? The president's fucking insane. There's no way he'll be suitable for work after the shit he's seen in his cell."

Mortmon whimpered, only proving their assumptions to be correct.

"Whatever, it's not like you have any say in the matter. One controversial thought and you're dead meat," he stopped talking and turned away to work at his station. He was honestly just staring at screens and typing lines of code into consoles.

The other guards started to ignore Rizard as well, turning back to their workstations. All except for one. "So... Do you even know which station is which?"

Rizard shook his head.

The guard sighed. "What job did Hitler assign you to?"

It didn't even take him a second to realise who he meant. "Uh, I think it had something to do with... The cells?

"Oh, so camera surveillance? Lucky, the Rick that works there just left for a coffee break." Rizard's mind almost froze. That guy he murdered was just only watching the cameras, nothing else. He wasn't any good at his job if he allowed a pair of escapes to go loose. He must have slacked off.

The guard pointed to an empty chair surrounded by three separate screens. They were all quite large in size and weren't showing any camera feed for the time being. They all just had black screens with the haunting, golden logo of the president's tyranny. It was almost like a screensaver, just a 3D model of the emblem slowly spinning around as it waited for a user to wake the computer up.

Rizard went over to it and sat down, leaving Mortmon to stand next to him in puzzlement. He grabbed the computer mouse and shook it, the screens coming to life as three different camera feeds appeared on them. They were titled, 'Power_Core_Entry#1', 'Floor_5_Corridor#13', and 'Cell_Row2_#8'. Sick fucks, they spied on the individual cells! They could see everything, and yet they did nothing. Rizard didn't feel bad about killing that worker anymore.

Nothing much was happening on the feeds, just a couple of Mortys entering a room and a shot of an empty cell. He felt an eerie sensation in his stomach but ignored it. He messed around with the system until he found what changed the feed, and kept going through them until the cell room feed was now an entire view of the cell floor. Now, he just had to find the controls for the doors.

Yes, he was going to do exactly that: he was going to free all the inmates. With them on the loose, it was going to be harder for anyone to pay attention to what Rizard was doing, and with the crazed prisoners killing everyone, the facility would fall into ruins. If they were lucky, someone might just kill the president once and for all. Oh, he hoped. Rizard would be a hero, even if he wasn't the one to kill the president. He would be the one to start a revolution inside the factory, and he would end the president's tyranny.

Almost giddy with excitement, he attempted to ask his fellow guards a question in the least suspicious way he could. "Hey, uh, could I have some help with the controls?"

They ignored him, only quietly groaning in frustration, except for the same Rick as last time. He wandered over with a weak glower and leaned over Rizard, pointing at the screen. Obviously, Rizard already knew how to use it, he just needed to grab something; something that would help him escape. As the guard explained the controls, Rizard slowly and silently reached for the guard's firearm. His slender fingers wrapped around the holster and with a swift motion, he clicked the lock open and brought out the gun, blasting the guard directly in the face. The laser drilled a bloody hole through his head and sent him reeling to the floor, where he lay lifeless. Before the other guards could react, Rizard shot each of them, blasting their brains out onto their stations in a bloody mess.

Rizard's eyes were buggy as he evaluated the carnage he had caused. All six Ricks, innocent or not, had died by the barrel of his gun, all because they were simply in the way. He felt powerful, yet guilt purged his insides, causing a tidal wave of disoriented emotions to break through the sandbags in his head.

The president must feel like this. A megalomaniac with infinite power and control, but the guilt of his actions haunting him constantly. Rizard realised, just that very moment, that he was no better than the president. No one on the citadel was. Ricks and Mortys alike craved power-- humans craved power. They're all greedy for the taste of control, all ready to force their tyrannical fantasies on the weak.

Rizard slipped the gun into his holster. The absence of the cold metal of the weapon on his fingers felt like the guards' deaths were just a couple quick kills and nothing else. They were already forgotten, as no one would remember them anyway. A loss of life on the citadel meant nothing and this massacre wouldn't be any different, and Rizard knew that in his heart.

_Would escaping this place prove any good? Even if he did cause a prison riot, would it really shut down the factory? Would anyone even care if Rizard died in here? Does any death even matter in this pointless life?_

He gritted his teeth so hard that he swore he could feel grains of enamel on his tongue.

Mortmon could see his distress. He was still and silent, other than his slight trembling and shaky breaths. He kept his distance, not wanting to trigger the elder in any way. Mortmon knew how Ricks were. He had been forced to face their wrath many times. He knew how angry they could get and how violent they would become when provoked.

"Morty..."

The boy's ears perked up, but fear grew in his stomach.

"Find the controls that unlock the cells. We're getting out of this fucking hellhole."


	8. alarm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's gone wrong.

Mortimer decided to sleep on the job as an easier alternative than doing anything again. He rested his head on his desk, his eyes peeled open as he watched S-335 work. The boy was working on the code for the machine, typing up a storm on the keyboard. Mortimer had no idea what any of the code meant, he was a surgeon, not a programmer.

S-335 noticed him staring after a while.

"Are you bored?"

Mortimer just nodded slowly without diverting his eyes from the computer screen.

"I can teach you code."

"No, I'm fine." Too boring.

"Uh, then are you just gonna sit there and stare?"

"Yeah..."

"If the president walks in here and sees you he'll send your ass to the transformation chambers."

Mortimer sighed loudly and sat up. "Then what do I do?"

"Uh..." His word dragged on for a couple seconds before he simply shrugged.

"See? Nothing." He laid back down, this time with his face directly facing toward the table's surface.

"Well, you could always--" his words were stopped short by a sudden screeching alarm. Mortimer sat up immediately, yelling in surprise. Red lights circled the room in an orderly fashion, flashing 'danger!' in their eyes. The alarm blared as it sounded its cry, alerting everyone to evacuate the area without the use of words, simply sound.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Mortimer screamed over the blare of the alarm, his words hardly making it to S-335's ears.

"Shit, that's a lockdown siren. Something's gone wrong..." he stood up from his chair and glanced around, watching as the others left the room in hurdles. "Follow me and we shouldn't get hurt."

Mortimer did as he said and followed along behind him. Every time he almost lost him in the crowds of Ricks and Mortys, he would find him again and their escape would carry on. The alarm never ceased, it kept blaring and ringing, and the red lights kept flashing and rolling.

The exit never seemed to arrive. They kept running through halls but never stopped. The emergency stairs had people tripping and falling, some even being crushed under hundreds and thousands of boots and having their brains scattered across the steps in a bloody carnage. No one, not even Mortimer, had it in them to care. Everyone was panicked and needed to get out as fast as possible. Deaths didn't matter as long as it wasn't you.

Everyone in front of Mortimer and S-335 seemed to stop in a long hallway. They all came to a halt and everyone collided with each other, profanities and yells being thrown around at random.

Then an astonishingly loud "SHUT UP!" was roared from a Rick, and everyone fell silent.

Footsteps. They were coming from the floor above them. Millions of them stomping around like they owned the place. It was surprising that they could even be heard. With the design of the place, footsteps being too loud seemed to be the least of their worries, but these footsteps were so very audible; almost as if a herd of elephants was charging through the factory. It was quite horrifying to listen to because those footsteps might just be the reason the siren is blaring. Whatever was happening up there, it wasn't good.

The voices started up again, the huge group of workers getting rowdy and panicked by the second. However, just as their voices grew louder, footsteps echoed in the flight of stairs at the end of the hall, but no one could manage to hear them approach.

\---

They did it. Rizard and Mortmon, as a team, released the prisoners. Every last one of them, upon the five floors of hundreds of cells, they were out for good. Thousands of prisoners went into a violent riot and the alarms were immediately sounded to alert the workers to evacuate and call upon the guards to take care of the uproar, but it was no good.

Rizard and Mortmon made it to a room that overlooked the cell floor. They watched live as prisoners fought the guards through blood and glory. Ricks were torn apart into strings of gore and trails of guts, Mortys were shot into a bloody paste or bashed in the head with anything lying around. The guards may have had guns, but the prisoners had size on their side. Not physical size, just the horrific amount of prisoners there actually was. An estimate of fifteen thousand of them gathered in the cramped hallway, treading over mangled corpses and slipping on huge puddles of gore that seemed to stretch on for miles. Bodies piled on other bodies, dismembered limbs flew through the air and were even used as weapons. Screams echoed throughout the room. They were piercing and horrific, pure agony and anger entrenched within them. They tore from throats either in glorious war cries or as they died painfully as they were beaten with limbs, torn apart with nails, or blasted to pieces with guns and grenades.

Rizard couldn't take his eyes off the scene. It was so gruesome, so horrific, that he almost wanted to be down there himself to get a piece of the action.

A Rick exploded so horribly that his blood managed to splatter on the glass of their viewing room, even though they were five cell floors upwards. It was hard to see because of that, but Mortmon looked like he had decided to stop watching anyway. He tugged on Rizard's sleeve, asking to leave without saying the words.

Rizard pushed him away. "Hold on, I wanna keep watching this."

Mortmon growled and tugged harder.

" _STOP!_ " He screamed, pushing Mortmon hard enough for him to tumble. He fell to the floor and hit his head, making a sudden cry of pain. As he laid there holding the site of impact, Rizard looked at his hands and wondered what made him do that. Rizard never hurt Mortys. Actually, Ricks hardly ever physically hurt Mortys. There were exceptions, of course, but Rizard felt horrible. He literally just pushed the kid over just because he was too selfish to think about his feelings, as per usual. Maybe Rizard was more of Rick than he thought.

"I'm s-sorry," he sputtered, still looking at the hands that had betrayed him. The boy glared at him with hateful eyes.

"Fuck you," he seethed viscously, his voice deep, dark and mad. He stood up slowly and looked away. It may have seemed like a small mistake, but he couldn't trust this Rick. He was already showing signs of 'Rickness' back when he killed the worker, and this was the final result. He was an abusive old man, just like the rest of them. "Find a way out y-yourself, cunt stain." He left the room before Rizard could stop him. The man didn't bother running after him. He had made up his mind, and that was that. He also knew Mortmon would probably die, but it didn't matter. If he wanted to leave, he can leave.

Rizard looked at the riot outside the window again. More bodies were piled in the hall, some prisoners even jumping from the higher cell floors and landing on guards, killing them. Splatters of gore stained the walls a dark red, same went with the floor. It was drenched in scarlet blood, every nook and cranny filled with it.

The prisoners were winning. The guards were being mowed down like pigs to the slaughter, being reduced to nothing but corpses. The prisoners used the dead guards' guns, which only made their victory quicker. Bullets tore the opposition apart, walls of guards exploding into gore.

Rizard finally couldn't watch it anymore. He left the room, not sure of where to go, but he assumed he could just leave by the vents again with Mortmon gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	9. kill them all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prisoner dilemma is reported to the president and he's not thrilled about it.

The president couldn't believe it when he heard the news. Not only was he in shock, but also furious that the factory workers didn't prevent it from happening. If they were that shit at their job that they couldn't even track down escapees with highly advanced technology, then they shouldn't have jobs at all. It all started when three guards came running into his office, alerting him about the riot on the cell floor. He had become so enraged that he blew the guard's brains out with his firearm, then remained seated at his desk in order to calm down.

If he lost his factory, he would lose his indoctrinated army. He couldn't lose them, they were the only thing keeping him in power. His control revolved around this very facility and there was not a chance in hell that he was losing it to a bunch of soon-to-be brainwashed prisoners. He would crush them under his thumb like the insects they were, bugs that just happened to wander into his home of insecticide. Each bug was slowly dying from the moment they entered and before they could manage to escape into freedom, they would die a slow painful death. 

"How many fighters have you got down there?" The president hissed through bared teeth, anger boiling in his core. 

"Hundreds of guards went down there. They're nearly all dead, sir."

The president hit his fist on the desk so hard that he left a dent.

"BULLSHIT!" He roared. "Where the FUCK are the others?! Send everyone down there! Lock the entire factory down! Don't let anyone fucking escape or so help me, I'll kill you all myself." He paused. "Oh, also, turn that fucking alarm off, it's pissing me off."

The guard was trembling, but simply nodded and ran off. The un-chipped guards seemed to be so afraid of the president that it was actually funny to him. But this was no laughing matter. Whoever let the prisoners out needed to be punished severely. Perhaps locked up in a black box for the rest of their lives or kept in a torture chamber until they die. Whatever the case, he would find them and they would pay for the damage they've done to his home.

He stood up and slipped his eyepatch around his head, connecting the wires carefully. His head buzzed alive, the familiar feeling of another presence in his mind. He ordered this other presence to come to him, and it did. It walked from its metal closet to its owner, towering above the boy with its shiny, golden body.

It was a suit of armour, a mini mecha, and it was built exactly for the president. He controlled it with his mind and body, and together, they made a killing machine. He's only used it twice before, to break up a mob and a riot, but today was different, no matter how similar it seemed. His factory was at risk of crumbling at the hands of pathetic prisoners, and he wouldn't let that damage his reputation. He would protect his factory from the thousands of loose prisoners and he would do it with style.

He entered the suit of armour, fitting his limbs in the connection slots and infusing the wires into his own robotic endoskeleton. The initial feeling of having wires channel inside you was agonising, but once they established a strong connection, the pain was gone. He felt what the suit felt, he could feel skulls crush under his fist and blood spatter on his face, all in the safety of an ironclad suit. The golden suit encumbered him completely and looked like a cross of Iron Man and a mech. It was packed with weaponry and an overshield, pretty much invulnerable and capable of taking down armies within seconds. This would be a piece of cake.

He began his trek to the prison floor, surprised that the armour even fitted in the elevator. He pushed past guards and crushed some under his metal boots, finally in front of the wall of guards. A sea of thousands of prisoners gawked at him. Then they roared. Every last one of them let out a horrendous war cry and charged towards him with weapons in hand.

The president loaded his guns up. Rocket launchers, missile launchers, machine guns and lasers, all at the ready. The machine gun tore through skin and flesh like a knife through butter, creating walls of gore and painting everyone in the midst red. The missiles blew people to pieces, sending their bloody gibs all over the place. The lasers sliced people in half and removed limbs, wiping out entire rows of prisoners at a time. When that got boring, he got out his melee weapons. A chained mace, a hammer, a sword and a whip. Four arms and four giant, very deadly weapons. He charged into the ocean of enemies and went wild, slicing and smashing his targets to shreds. The golden armour was stained a dark red within seconds, gore and gibs decorating it as he went. He cut down the prisoners like flies and pulverized them with his hammer with ease. A minute passed and he had murdered more than three thousand prisoners. He felt so alive! All around him was anger, grief and death, all it did was enlight him. It made him want more, to keep killing, keep going, and never stop. He felt so powerful, and he was. He was a god, and these mere mortals were only killing themselves by attempting to challenge him.

The guards mowed down the prisoners that were smart enough to realise that the president was invincible but stupid enough to not realise the walls of guards surrounding them. Snipers, rifles, machine guns, they had it all, and they were all laser-powered and capable of killing a being with a single shot, much like every firearm on the Citadel.

The prisoners never gave up, they kept coming at him and giving him all they got until there was nothing left. Just gore. Mountains of corpses, pools of blood that were inches deep, walls sprayed with blood that the original paint was hidden completely. The remaining prisoners ran off, but there was quite a few. Nearly three thousand escaped into the depths of the facility.

The president started to laugh manically, hopped out of his suit of armour and crashed into the bodies. As he laughed, he noticed the guards giving him weird stares, even the chipped guards, and told them to find the prisoners that disappeared into the abyss of the factory.

For now, he would celebrate the genocide. It felt good to be this powerful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love gore aiuyshjnksdfhijngjkng. also i cant believe that entire mass-murder scene sounds like something out of that godforsaken 'pickle rick' episode i did not want this-


	10. lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer gets lost in the factory.

With all the voices, none of the workers heard the footsteps, but they definitely heard the screaming emanating from each other. A collective shout went around the crowd of workers. Mortimer turned to see what everyone was screaming about, and then started panicking himself. A hoard of prisoners was bounding towards them, some with dismembered limbs in their hands and all soaked in fresh blood. They had the pure intent to kill etched in their eyes, and with nowhere to run, Mortimer knew this was his time to go.

The workers all ran for their lives until everyone ran into a door. It was gigantic, nearly as tall as the wall. It was marked with yellow and black stripes with the warning 'EMERGENCY EXIT' plastered on it. Mortimer watched as desperate workers typed in codes into the keypad, but the door simply groaned and stayed put.

Fuck! The door wasn't opening!

Everyone proceeded to bang on the door instead, but it led to nothing. "They locked the factory down!" Someone yelled.

The hoard of bloodied madmen was catching up, so some workers decided to fight instead. When the two teams collided, a gore fest arose. No one knew how to fight, except for the Ricks and the occasional Morty, so it simply led to limbs being messily and brutally torn from bodies, eyes being gouged, and tons of blood being spilt. Soon enough, half the workers were already dead and mangled and hardly any prisoners were even injured.

S-335 knew there was no point staying at the door. He would die proud. He ran toward the hoard with a raised fist but died within seconds. Mortimer watched as his co-worker, and dare he say his friend, was torn apart by a crazed Rick, his limbs literally ripped from his body while he was still alive and then beaten to death with his own dismembered arms. His murderer gleamed with gore, the liquid literally dripping from his face in puddles of blood. He smiled the most horrifying smile in Mortimer's direction and the boy swore he pissed himself from the terror.

He closed his eyes, waiting for death to encumber him, but it never came. A barrage of bullets howled through the air and was followed by disgusting wet tears of flesh and sprays of blood. Mortimer could feel the warm liquid splatter on his face and he slowly cranked open his eyes.

Oh.

All the prisoners, dead. Lying on the floor with bullet holes through their bodies. Mangled and bleeding.

On the other side of the hall was a wall of guards, armed to the teeth.

"How many casualties?" A guard called out.

Everyone looked around, staring at the corpses of their co-workers and friends, perhaps even enemies.

"A lot..." A Morty replied.

A guard ran up to the group, gun in hand. "Is the door locked?"

A collective 'yes' circled around the group.

"Head to the stairs, follow the other guards."

The workers obliged and ran along, following the group of guards that were advancing up the stairs. The other guards followed, some also heading downstairs as well. Mortimer didn't follow immediately, he stayed behind, mesmerised by the sea of bodies. His eyes trained on S-335, his mangled corpse sending a surge of grief through his soul. As his mind lingered with sorrow, he totally forgot about the escape plan. He glanced over at the staircase, noticing that it was now barren of anyone. Not even the faraway footsteps of panicking workers and valiant guards could be heard.

Fuck. Mortimer had lost the group. He was panicking, even though he knew he could just travel up the flight of stairs until he met up with them. But what if they were already walking down a hallway and he couldn't find them? That's what he was worried about.

He stepped over bodies and ran to the staircase, looking up and down to see if he could see anyone. Not a soul.

With a hushed curse, he decided to head upwards to the next floor. Checking each floor separately seemed to be the only way around this, but it would definitely take a long time, and if more of those lose prisoners were around, he was screwed if he ran into them. He started his advance upwards, skipping certain steps to get to his destination quicker. He didn't know what floor he was on, they didn't exactly have signs showing where you were because most people used the elevator. The stairs were used for emergencies and problems with the elevators (or that's what S-335 told him about that one time he apparently got trapped in the elevator for three hours).

He quietly trekked down the corridor, passing door after door and warning sign after warning sign. Cautions about the certain deadly chemicals and harmful elements within the rooms behind the dingy doors. He paid no attention to them and continued on to the end of the room before he heard the elevator stop at his floor. Mortimer froze, unsure whether to bolt or wait to see if it was a guard. In the bravest feat he'd ever perform, he stood completely still and waited for the elevator doors to slide open. He knew that he could die in a matter of seconds, but he could also live and get transported out of this horrible place. Escaping outweighed dying in this scenario, which was definitely a first for Mortimer.

Finally, the elevator door's groaned and wheezed, before opening slowly to reveal a Morty. The first thing Mortimer noticed was the fact that he was wearing a yellow shirt, which was the exact things that workers were _not_ allowed to wear so they could be distinguished from the prisoners. The second thing Mortimer noticed was his claws. The second he saw him, he bolted. He ran into the room beside him after opening the door, not even caring if the prisoner saw him.

After hiding behind the biggest thing he could find in the room, he finally discerned how dark it was in there. He didn't even know what he was hiding behind. At least it was some type of metal cylinder and not a mound of baby flesh; who knew what sick shit could be going on in the factory. As he waited behind the mysterious cylinder, he detected the quiet footsteps in the room.

 _Pip pap, pip pap_.

He walked so delicately, almost as if his toes would break if they touched the ground too hard. His slow breaths circulated the room, invading the empty space in Mortimer's ears. He sounded frightened and uncertain, and if Mortimer was correct, he sounded like he was looking for him.

Shit.

His body grew stiff with fear and his breaths became more frequent, but he still attempted to keep them quiet.

The room went quiet and then a sudden bright light flashed in Mortimer's eyes. In a panic, he yelped in fear and scrambled up to the wall, before realising the light was actually the ceiling lights and not someone pointing a flashlight in his eyes. If his own scream wasn't loud enough, another followed after, accompanied by yet another scream. It was this stream of shrieks, one was obviously a Morty, and the other... There was something wrong with them.

Mortimer had the opportunity to leave. He stood up with his back still plastered to the wall and peaked from behind the metal cylinder, which he found was a power generator of some kind. It was asleep, unlike everything else in the room, and simply hummed almost silently. The next thing he saw made him sick. Just like his workroom, jars of pickled babies and fetuses lined the shelves, sitting in a disgusting yellowish fluid, but that wasn't even the worse thing about the room. It was definitely a lab of some kind, obviously depicted by the grotesque decor and various examination light fixtures placed beside surgical tables that had a surface made of small holes for the blood to drain, just like back at Mortimer's work. The holes clearly did a pathetic job, though, because the tables were stained a sickening _brown_ from the long years they'd been kept unclean.

Enough of the surgery elements of the room, they were nothing compared to the huge lumbering beast that was about to attack the prisoner that was searching for him. Whatever it was, it was horrifying, and if he wasn't going crazy and was seeing this right, the monster looked like a conjoined twin. One-half Rick, the other a Morty. Their skin was quite literally stitched together, but a majority of their connections looked as if their skin had melted and conjoined that way. Morty was conjoined to the elder's back, his legs completely gone. Only his torso was left, while Rick had his entire body. Morty, however, wasn't completely useless to his grandfather because Rick didn't have any eyes.

Mortimer glanced at the prisoner the conjoined beast was trying to attack, and before long, realised the monster wasn't... actually getting anywhere. At all. Then he noticed the chains pulling him back and the shackles around his ankles, he felt kinda bad but relieved that it wasn't on the lose.

"It's chained up," Mortimer finally spoke, trying to raise his voice above the hideous roar of agony the creature was howling.

The prisoner glanced over at him, a look of frozen fear on his face, and then looked back at the monster. It was indeed chained up. He felt stupid that he hadn't realised that sooner, he must have been too frightened to notice it.

Second, he noticed the (bloodied) lab coat the other boy was wearing and immediately grew fearful again. He took a few steps back, keeping silent.

"Aren't you gonna kill me?" Mortimer asked curiously.

He stopped backing away. Seconds past and he finally shook his head. He wasn't lying, there was just something about his face that showed terror and innocence.

Mortimer shook his head in confusion. "You're a prisoner, though. I watched them kill everyone."

He shook his head again, which Mortimer depicted as 'no, I haven't killed anyone'. Or at least he hoped that's what it meant.

"I still don't know if I can trust you."

"You don't need to."

_Finally, he speaks._

"And it's not just because you look like a demon, either."

He looked down at his black arms and clawed hands. With a shrug, he glanced back up at Mortimer.

"Then we'll go our separate ways," the prisoner stated.

Mortimer couldn't decide whether to let him live or not. If this was on camera and someone viewed the footage, well, he doesn't think he'll have a job for much longer if they catch him letting a prisoner live. But could he really just kill him for the sake of his job? The prisoner wasn't soaked in gore like the rest and other than his menacing appearance, he looked innocent. He was sad, lost, and his eyes glistened with truma. If anything, he reminded Mortimer of himself.

"Fine." He couldn't kill him. He wasn't a murderer-- that was a lie. He was very much a murderer and a horrible person, but he couldn't kill an innocent Morty. "But the guards will kill you the moment they see you."

"I know."

Mortimer didn't know what to say. If Morty wanted to go out on his own, then he could.

He nodded and established to leave, but stopped just before he left the room.

"One more thing, what's your name?"

The prisoner looked over. He looked hesitant. "I don't know," he finally said with cold, jaded eyes.

Mortmon was the name given to him by twisted lips. Morty was the name he was called by sick men that laughed as they hit him. He forgot his dimension name a long time ago.

He didn't have a name.

"Oh. I'm Mortimer. Well, I guess this is goodbye, _'I don't know'_." Before the other could reply, he left quickly to keep searching for his co-workers.

The nameless boy stood in silence. He looked at the amalgamate creature. It was quiet now. Morty was staring at him with pained eyes. When it tried to speak, its voice was broken.

"I can... Hear you. Hear... Thoughts." It tapped its head with a slender finger.  
"I am as well nameless. I am made of two entities, into one. I'm a ghost," it groaned, sadness plaguing his voice.

Ghost.

The prisoner smiled. He wasn't nameless anymore.

His name was Ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone keeps fucking dying i should have my fanfiction writing permit taken from me--


	11. closing line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer's story comes to a close.

There was still no sign of his co-workers. Mortimer tried nearly every floor but still had much more to go. The factory was gigantic, a lot of it was even underground and hidden from the view of citizens. Mortimer had never gone down there or was even allowed to. Apparently only the president and incredibly high ranking workers were given access. Not even guards, unless they were chipped and given permission. The boy was curious as to what lurked in the depths of the factory. He assumed it was something more devasting than the things on the floors visible to the average factory worker's eyes. There could have been sick experiments being done down there, or maybe it was a prison, filled to the brim with thousands of Ricks and Mortys-- and Hell, maybe even aliens.

Whatever was down there, honestly, Mortimer didn't want to know. He was curious to the point where he would sometimes consider risk losing his job just to sneak down there, but he never went as far as to actually go down there. He didn't actually want to lose his job (he would probably be killed or worse: he could ultimately be down there himself as a slave or something) or end up seeing something that will scar him forever. He'd much rather be curious than _dead._

He grew tired around five floors or so. He lost count even though he had only been to five floors. Each floor had so many doors and rooms, so much to discover. Most of the rooms he wanted to enter couldn't even be opened with his keycard since he needed a higher level of access or needed to be a certain class of worker. He was a surgeon so he couldn't get into rooms for engineers or assemblers, so a lot of interesting rooms were off limits.

He decided to sit down and rest, but only for a short while. He sat near the stairs with a scalpel in his hands so if a prisoner came up he would jab the blade into their neck if they tried to jump him.

Ten minutes past by and no one came by. Just as Mortimer went to continue his search for his group, a Rick came stumbling upstairs and stopped as he made eye contact with the boy.

"G-573?"

Mortimer cocked a brow. "Who's asking?"

"Me. I've been looking for you."

Mortimer pulled a face. "Wait, so you're telling me you went on a search for me through a dangerous factory full of loose, murderous prisoners with a very high risk of dying? And what for?"

"Uh, you weren't in the group so I just went looking for you."

Mortimer was suspicious. He studied Ricks and he had a feeling this one was lying. Or, maybe not lying, but there was something he wasn't telling him.

"No really, why did you come looking for me? I don't even know who you are."

"I'm T-371, your neighbour."

Mortimer checked his name tag. He was indeed T-371, and now that he thought about it, he was also definitely his neighbour. He never spoke to the Rick because he seemed so... Quiet. Actually, he was much like Mortimer, but there was something else about him. He was disturbingly creepy. He would sometimes catch T-371 staring at him, and it wasn't just him daydreaming. It was much more than that and Mortimer was starting to get uncomfortable around him.

"I still don't get why you want me."

T-371 groaned, almost as if he was growing impatient, and pulled a knife from his lab coat. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way you little bitch," he practically purred, approaching Mortimer with his new menacing demeanour. The change was so quick. He was like a badly written, edgy villain in a child's fanfiction who snapped with the simplest of moments. If anything, Mortimer was expecting his eyes to go red and start leaking a black liquid just to make him all the most cliché and horrible, but instead they blazed with fury and his pupils dilated horribly so.

Mortimer backed away immediately, almost stumbling over his feet in a panic. He jabbed his scalpel at the air to keep T-371 at a distance, but the Rick didn't stop his advance. When he got too close, Mortimer swiped his blade at him. The blade got caught on flesh and cut through it with ease, cutting down to the bone.

T-371 yelled violently, holding the site of impact. Blood seeped through his closed fingers, painting his hand and arm a messy and sticky stain of red. T-371 glanced upwards and glared at Mortimer with pinprick eyes, sending fear through the boy's body.

"You're gonna pay for that, kid," he growled, wiping his bloody hand on his shirt. It left a red stain on his shirt as the cut on his arm continued to bleed.

He lunged forward before Mortimer could react, pushing him to the floor. The boy's knuckles hit the ground hard, sending the scalpel out of his hands and across the floor. Mortimer started to panic, groaning once he felt a heavy weight push down on his groin. The tip of a scalpel pushed into his skin just under his jaw, but it only caused a slight dribble of blood. The pain was still horrible, leaving a pulsing burning sensation that made his jaw ache.

"I'm gonna fucking destroy your ass, little boy."

"Get off me!" His question was responded with a smack across his face. The force of the blow sent his head spinning and his vision black, and before he knew it, he had his face pushed roughly against the ground and his backside in the air when his vision came clear.

Mortimer, all too familiar with this, writhed in Rick's grasp, grunting as his hair was pulled painfully and his face was smashed against the floor again. A weak cry slipped past his lips, but he was not giving T-371 what he wanted. He wasn't going to sob or scream, he wouldn't give T-371 the pleasure.

"Don't do it," Mortimer warned, more worried for T-371's safety than his own. He had a history with killing those who opposed him, most of those being in his surgery.

Rick chuckled, holding his head close to the boy's ears. "I'm gonna pound you until you fucking pass out." Mortimer could hear every sound his mouth made. The slaps of saliva as his tongue flapped around in his mouth, the sickening swallows he would take every second, and the small, shaky breaths that escaped his disgusting, chapped lips. "Spread your legs for daddy--"

Mortimer couldn't fucking do this again.

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME!" He screamed, his struggling becoming more efficient.

"Stop squirming, kid," he hissed, working at his pant's zipper. The sound wasn't unfamiliar to Mortimer. He knew how much time he had before it was too late, and he needed to escape fast.

"I'll cut your little friend off if you even dare put that thing near me."

"Little? Who are you calling little?"

He felt something hard touch the clothing over his ass and knew exactly what it was. He freaked out again and sat up, then fell backward, landing on top of his attacker. He could feel the man's erect member pushed up against his back, and with Rick's grip on his hair loose, he escaped his grasp and scrambled up, picking up his scalpel with him.

Rick was already on his feet by the time he looked back. The elder was furious, staring at Mortimer with pure hatred but also a sense of longing. It disgusted him.

Rick pulled his pants up and grappled his blade. "You messed up real bad."

"No, you messed up."

Rick was stunned. He wasn't used to the Mortys talking back, and this Morty did it a lot.

He growled and readied himself to charge before a blade made work of his throat. Someone behind T-371 had come up out of nowhere and slit his neck open, slicing a messy gash across his skin. Blood literally spurted from the wound in a mist of red, droplets of gore showering the floor beyond him and even specks of blood painting Mortimer's clothes and skin. A disgusting wet gurgle of agony left his lips as blood spewed from his mouth and trickled from the corners of his lips as he shook violently in place.

Mortimer was in shock. He wasn't expecting... That.

Next, a pair of hands-- Morty's hands-- dug his fingers into the bleeding gash and tore into the flesh with a wet rip of skin. The hands tore the neck open, splitting the skin into red strings of meat. Finally, his entire neck was pulled apart, his head hanging on mere strings of skin as it fell back, seperated from his neck. Even a larger wall of blood squirted from the almost completely decapitated neck and even decorated the wall with its gory contents.

Blood dripped from the ceiling, pouring to the silver floor in pools of gore. The red liquid seeped through the grating embedded in the floors, getting within the factory itself.

T-371's body fell forward and landed in a puddle of his own blood, his wound still bleeding profusely. His murderers towered above him. They were a trio of prisoner Mortys.

Fuck. They didn't look friendly toward Mortimer either.

The boy backed off, holding his hands out in defence.

"Just let us get this over and done with quickly," they spoke soundly, all of them raising their weapons. One had a dismembered Rick's arm, one had a guard's gun, and the other had a knife-- that one was the murderer and in some way, Mortimer's saviour. 

Mortimer panicked anyway and bolted off into the hallway. He could hear the prisoners pick up their pace as he cornered into a dark room and hid in the darkest place in the room that he could find. He didn't know what it was but as long as it hid him he was fine with it.

He heard footsteps near the entrance of the room and desperately attempted to stay quiet and stay completely hidden in his hiding place.

"Where are you?" A prisoner called out in a singsong way, his voice echoing around the small room. It was like a moderately sized storage room but still too small to hide in for the amount of time Mortimer would like to stay hidden; say-- forever.

"We only wanna play a little game!" Another giggled, Mortimer afraid that their voices were getting closer.

_Go away go away go away!_

And they did. The air erupted with the sound of laser fire, lighting the room up in a bright purple light and a shower of red. The dying gurgles of Mortys replaced the empty quiet of the room when the laser fire stopped and Mortimer's entire mind went blank. Were those... Guards that shot them?

He peeked out of his hiding place and saw a group of guards. His saviours!

"Oh my g-god," he stuttered, crawling out of his spot. "Are y-you guys escorting workers out?"

The guard, who was chipped, nodded silently. "Follow me." He began his descent down the stairs with Mortimer following.

He was so happy. Almost about to jump in the air, but in reality, he was scared shitless and his gut was purged with dread. This very day would haunt him forever. So much death and anxiety and grief all in such a short time, his mind would never heal. This factory, in general, was traumatising. It was a horrible, horrible place, and Mortimer knew he couldn't heal easily in here. He'd be locked in here until he dies, probably unnaturally, and never see the sunlight again.

Did he mind? Yes, of course, he did. He wanted to be free and do whatever he wanted. He wanted to go to school and earn friends, educate himself, eat food, play games, _smile_. But no, Rick had trapped him on the citadel, Rick had traumatised him and made him a killing machine. And now the president-- the president was a Rick. A Rick in a Morty's skin suit. 

The guard stopped in front of a huge door, Mortimer still following. It looked much like the one before that was locked and caused the death of nearly half of the workers. There was a group of factory workers waiting there with a wall of guards surrounding them. It was Mortimer's group from before, the one he lost contact with. There was more then just them. though. In the mix of scientists and surgeons were cleaners, engineers, handlers, assemblers, and the maintenance staff.

Mortimer was pushed into the crowd of workers by the guard he had followed and almost toppled over a Morty engineer. The boy growled a mumbled, "watch where you're going," and glared at him with knackered eyes. 

"Sorry, do you know why they're holding us here?"

The engineer fixed his gas mask and rubbed smudged oil off his forehead with the back of his hand. His voice was muffled by the gas mask, but still audible. "Yeah, they're collecting the rest of the scrambled workers and killing off the rogue prisoners. They said they'll open the doors when they're finished. Personally, I think they're lying and the doors are never gonna open. Why the hell would they let us out, anyway? They'll never let us see the sunlight, never in a million years--"

He never stopped rambling. Mortimer grew bored and let the other's voice be a simple background noise as he studied the huge pair of black doors. The yellow stripes on them were the only colour in the room. The rest of the room was dark and gloomy, stained with grease, oil and age. But the doors almost seemed taller than the room. He really wanted to know _why_ they were so huge. The foreboding sight of them was more horrifying than pleasing, even though they were meant to be the worker's saviours and a way out of the hellish factory.

Mortimer didn't believe the engineer. He knew the guards would let them out, even if the next room over was simply a safe room. He didn't care about the sun, he just wanted to live, even though he honestly wanted to die and leave this place forever. He couldn't make up his mind, and he probably never would. He would keep working, and working, and working until he would eventually die from either falling in a vat of acid, getting torn apart by a crazed test subject, or having the president blow his brains out for some simple, tiny mistake. Whatever killed him, he didn't care. He cared about the present, and in the present, he wanted to survive.

His human instinct was to survive.

A pair of guards walked into the room with a few workers and pushed them into the crowd like they had done with Mortimer. They were consisting of Ricks and Mortys and an injured Rick almost collapsed on him.

"Search complete," the guard stated, holding his gun firmly. "Open the doors."

Mortimer's survival instincts almost seemed to beam with joy. They had their wish come true; safety! He was going to live! He was going to finally get the fuck out of this place, even if it was only temporarily.

A guard's fingers went wild on the door control's keypad. With a beep, a loud mechanical groan shook the room violently and the doors started to pull apart slowly.

When a slip of light came through the small rift between the doors, Mortimer cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that's the end for Mortimer! i hope you enjoyed his little adventure throughout the story! he's alive and well, which is rare for characters in my fics. i just couldn't kill him,, i love him too much. there are more chapters to come, but Mortimer is safe now. he might be mentioned in other fics, so keep your eyes open for that! see y'all next chapter. stay awesome <33


	12. the master race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rizard travels to the underground levels of the factory and finds something he'll never forget.

Rizard found himself descending into the factory the longer he continued his journey, and soon found himself in the pits of the facility itself. The bottom of the flight of stairs was encumbered in darkness, completely enveloping the room they belonged to. The darkness seemed to crawl up the stairs, twisting and turning through the gaps of each step in a menacing display. It frightened him, sending him reeling back. He couldn't go down there, it was pitch black and probably full of monsters the president whipped up in his spare time. You could never be sure when it came to this place.

However, for some reason, the room called out to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating or just scared, but it was almost as if the darkness was pulling him in with its tendrils of black, wrapping around his wrists and bringing him into the dark abyss.

He couldn't fight the dark's allurement. It dragged him into its body of gloom and soon enough he was brought into a world of darkness.

He couldn't leave now. He needed to venture the room, as dark as it may be.

He travelled against the walls, keeping his hand on the grimy surface of the room to guide himself. He ran into a metal device only after a few seconds of walking and staggered back, trying to work out what he walked into. He couldn't see fuck all. The only thing ahead of him was pitch black darkness.

With a groan, he proceeded to continue walking, before another particular thing stopped his journey.

"I thought I'd find you down here."

His entire body went frozen stiff and a sharp pain assaulted his chest. Silence lingered for what felt like years, the only sound that filled his head was the irritating hum of tinnitus that was heard in complete silence and the loud beating of his panicking heart. He could feel his heart in his throat, almost as if it was clawing its way out.

Whoever else was in the room was a Morty, but they sounded oh-so-familiar. The voice was cold and corrupt, striking fear into his heart the second it passed his hearing. Behind the words laid sinister intentions, there was no doubt about it. The words that left his mouth were simply illusions to hide his real thoughts because Rizard knew he wanted him dead.

The other entity lurking within the dark abyss of the room was none other than the president. He had finally found him.

"You really fucked up my factory, you know," he spoke calmly, even though the words he spoke were hateful. "I can't believe I didn't realise it was you at first. How could have I been so blind?" He tapped at his robot eye with his nail, even though Rizard couldn't see him in the darkness.

"All I wanted was for you to escape, not to destroy my home, you ungrateful slob. I gave you the ability to leave this place for true freedom, something no one else gets, and you betray my trust? I don't know why I even decided to trust a Rick in the first place."

Rizard growled. The president was delusional. He was really messed up in the head, something he didn't see regularly in Mortys, usually just in Ricks.

Rizard finally decided to talk back, probably one of the hardest things for a citizen of the citadel to do. Talking back to the president was a death wish, even for his closest acquaintances and the most skilled workers. If someone had a different opinion than the president, they were killed.

"You're a real piece of shit, Mr. President. Literally, you're the shitstain of the multiverse," he hissed through bared teeth, standing tall. He assumed the president could see him through the darkness, so in the best effort he could, he would make himself look valiant and mighty because there was no way he was letting a Morty in a suit take his life away.

Silence reigned.

Then the laughter came. It filled the empty pockets of air, it resonated throughout the room, and it haunted Rizard's soul. The longer it went on, the more maniacal it became, until he was cackling like a crazed madman. "Oh! You're hilarious! You, a pathetic Rick, trying to shit talk me? Do you have any idea who I am?"

"President 'Oh-Look-At-Me-I'm-So-Special'?" Rizard mocked, still frightened by the laughing fit the president had broken into. "You're nothing but a narcissistic piece of trash that feeds off the misfortune of others."

The chuckling stopped. "Alright, wise guy, that's enough."

"What? Are you upset by a pathetic Rick like me?"

"I said _that's enough._ " His tone of voice was growing irritated.

"Come on then, try and stop me, sidekick."

The next thing he felt was a sharp burning sensation as a bright purple light lit up the room in a brilliant flash of colours. The president's plasma gun had fired off a round of pure, concentrated superheated plasma and seared Rizard's skin. The scales were torn from his arm in a painful, bloody fashion. It was agonising. He had shot off a patch of scales and some skin, leaving bare flesh in their place.

"Fucker!" He yelled in fury, holding his arm as it burned in pain.

"You brought this upon yourself, Rick."

Within seconds, the area of used-to-be darkness was defeated by a bright light, and the room lit up with colours as the ceiling lights came alive. The hum of machinery fed through the room and the wheeze of pipes pumping chemicals became another ambient in the industrial surrounding. The walls were a silver steel, almost resembling a metal endoskeleton with the way the wall curved inwards and outwards and from the many pumps and pipes that fed through the gaps. Said pipes pumped dark, red fluids through them that lit the room in a dim, red light. The room was long, almost seeming to never stop.

But the most prominent feature of the room had to be the machines lined against the wall, which was one of the things Rizard had walked into in the dark. They weren't big boxes of metal, no, they were simply machines holding the better machines: robots.

Upon further inspection, Rizard realised the machine was some sort of transformation unit, much like the one where manipulator chips were inserted. Just this was more open, it wasn't a black box. Many pipes and wires were plugged into the frame. The robot was standing inside it, its limbs connected by wires to the surface behind it. It looked more like a cyborg than robotic, though.

"Do you like them?"

Rizard's stomach dropped as he realised what he was looking at. They _were_ cyborgs. They were skin and flesh with metal parts built inside them, built to replace their bone and flesh, and built to protect that remaining skin. Internal organs were left in view, simply hanging in place without anything protecting them, what anyone would see as a design flaw, naturally. It must have been for something, though, because a range of tubes and wires were fed through him, inserted into the organs themselves, and mainly the heart. The Rick's once blue hair was gone, now just replaced with a metal scalp and wires connecting to its back. Dead, robot eyes lay were once alive eyes were. If anything, the cyborg looked like a metal skeleton-- a terminator, even-- but had the human qualities to be a cyborg instead of completely robotic. This Rick had undergone a transformation. All the Rick and Mortys inside the machines lining the walls of the endless room had all gone through a horrible conversion into machines, and that was much worse than getting a simple chip in your neck.

"What... what did you do to them?" Rizard was in shock.

"Oh, you think this is bad? You should see the other four underground floors. They may be worse but these are my creations... My children. I made them all like me, just with a few... _minor_ upgrades."

"They aren't upgraded! You-- you changed them into cyborgs without any consent!"

The president simply chuckled and stepped forward. He ambled over to a cyborg, a Morty, and placed a caring hand on its head, caressing it as if it was his child. "But look at them, they're beautiful! All sleeping so soundly..." He pressed his head against the cyborg, cooing to it like a baby. "Don't listen to the mean lizard man, he doesn't mean what he's saying..."

" _President Mortimer_ , if you don't mind me objecting--" the president glared at him-- "what you're doing is completely fucked. They aren't your babies, they're monsters."

"It's simply 'Sir' to you, peasant. These are my children, and I'll make sure my children tear you apart."

Before Rizard could even process the sentence, the president pressed a button on the cyborg's frame and a sudden flash of red lit up the room. The cyber entity's eyes shone a foreboding shade of red, staring dead ahead at nothing. With a haunting metal groan of its automated parts and inside mechanisms, it pushed itself from its holding unit and onto its feet. It stood still, a loud whirr emitting from its gears. A sheet of metal plates arranged themselves over its formerly exposed internal organs, reducing the probability of them being harmed. Rizard was mistaken, there definitely wasn't a design flaw there.

With a few tumbling steps, it turned to face Rizard, its red eyes locked in contact with Rizard's fearful blue eyes. There was no emotion behind the cyborg's eyes. It had been wiped completely. Memories, traits, personalities, thoughts, everything. It was like the manipulator chip, just in robot casing. This _thing_ was the perfect killing machine and was more reliable when it came to fighting. It had an exoskeleton of cybernetics and an endoskeleton of flesh. Bullets weren't going to penetrate its armour, and he had a feeling that a simple laser gun wasn't going to either.

The president smirked and dragged a tender hand over the cyborg's metal frame.

"You see, these prototypes are simply just soldiers. Of course, not everyone will be a soldier since I'll have the entirety of infinity in my control, but, these soldiers will do a much better job than you lot."

He was replacing them. Everyone who had gone through the transformation process, everyone who had been drafted and taken from their homes and turned into unthinking soldiers was going to be replaced. And replaced with what? More unthinking soldiers? Not only that, the president wanted the whole multiverse under his control. That wasn't possible, you couldn't have infinity since it's never-ending, but this Morty was insane; a complete megalomaniac. He would do anything to quench his greedy plans. That meant he had to be stopped. Rizard had a bad feeling that he could actually succeed in taking over everything if he really wanted.

"You can't do this."

The president laughed, "oh. Oh, I think I can. I'll do what I want and I'll get away with it. I'm a _karma Houdini_ , Rick. Get with the times." He struck the cyborg with his fist. It made a raucous hostile noise that Rizard's primal instincts _knew_ was danger. He backed up, reaching for his weapon.

"Go get him, boy."

As if he were a trained dog, the cyborg chased after Rizard who was definitely running by now. As he ran, he was confused by the fact that the robot didn't seem to shoot him at all, but pushed it aside so his legs had more energy for running. He fired his gun aimlessly over his shoulder, getting a little more hopeful everytime he heard the laser pellet collide with metal.

But the following footsteps never stopped. The heavy thuds of its metal feet approaching him were truly the most frightening thing Rizard had ever experienced. They sounded like they were getting closer every second, but nothing ever caught up to him. They just urged him to keep running, but his legs were getting tired. His throat was parched and aching, and his legs felt like jelly.

That's when he couldn't run anymore. His legs gave way and he tumbled over, falling to the floor. The cyborg stopped in its tracks immediately and stood over him, staring lifelessly into Rizard's soul. It was petrifying. It was like being stared at by something that didn't even exist; a shadow of something without a form.

Yet, the cyborg did nothing but stare. It didn't attack, didn't move, it only examined him nonchalantly.

The president came up behind his creation and placed an arm over its shoulder. He was smiling widely, laughing himself to tears.

"You should have seen yourself run! God, that has to be the funniest shit I've ever seen in my life." He pushed the cyborg, watching as it fell to the floor with a loud clunk. He scoffed at it. "It can't do anything, Rick. It doesn't even have any weapons systems and I haven't mastered its power mode yet. Blood is a hard thing to generate electricity from, y'know."

Blood power? Rizard shivered. He understood why those tubes were inside its stomach, now. It was feeding off its own blood. But why blood? Was the president really that psychotic? The more he learnt about his deranged mental state the more Rizard wanted to get the fuck away from him.

"Stupid cyborg can't even think for itself. It's the perfect slave and I'm the perfect ruler."

Rizard boiled with rage. "Fuck you," he seethed. "Why the fuck are you doing this to me? Just kill me already."

"I was wondering that myself." He started to pace slowly, circling Rizard like a vulture while Rizard was the prey. "Why _don't_ I just kill you?" He stopped, looking over at Rizard as if he wanted the man to answer the question.

Before Rizard could even utter a word, the president continued his lecture. "Maybe it's because I'm just a sadistic, psychopathic serial killer that wants nothing but bloodshed. But then again, wouldn't that end in me killing you?"

"I don't get what--"

"Shut up. I just want you to realise that what you're doing is futile. I just need you to know that you're never going to succeed. Everyone will be under my control, everyone will be like me, the multiverse will be mine to play with. So stop _fucking_ trying," he hissed, clenching his fists angrily and baring his teeth in a vicious display.

"I don't care. I'm not allowing you to do this--"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he screamed, holding his fists out in front of him, enraged. "Just shut up! I don't care about what you have to say. You're a stupid fucking Rick. Everyone is fucking stupid! Everyone talks shit! I'm the only fucking smart one in this entire, pathetic multiverse. I make the rules because I'm a _God!_ "

He was raging now. His eyes were bulging while he pupils remained horrifyingly dilated. His massive ego was exceeding his rational thoughts, pulling and tugging at him like he was simply a wooden puppet. And maybe he was. Maybe that's all the president was. A puppet played by his own sick desires. He was mentally ill-- a psychopath-- and was detached from his emotions. Without the emotional drive to control his actions, the only thing running the show was a sick brain with no power over itself and the body it owned.

"Everyone is just so puny to me. I see someone and I want to squash them. You all are lucky I haven't killed you all by now. I have the power to do that. I could just order my slaves to shoot everyone and then themselves and voilà! Everyone dead. But I haven't done that. I may be a fucked up God, but I'm not going to let my people die. You all obey me and live with what you've got."

Rizard felt like he was losing his mind. How did he get here? How did he manage to end up here in life with the president screaming at him? The boy looked ready to explode within seconds.

"Now, as your God, I order you to stand up."

Rizard, hesitantly, stood up from his position on the floor. The president glared at him with angry eyes, if he stared any harder his eyes would quite literally melt in their sockets.

"Good. Now I order you to stand still as I slit your fucking neck open--" he lunged at him and pushed him over again, tossing Rizard to the floor with a painful landing. The president kneeled above him, straddling his hips, knife in hand. It had a golden handle and blade, the metals sparkling in the dim lights above them. He held the weapon in the air, ready to bring it down on Rizard. If anything, he looked like an angel descending from the heavens because of the silhouette the light cast on him, but his eyes... Rizard made eye contact with him and his entire body went stiff. The boy's eyes were incomprehensible. They were buggy and wide, almost popping out of their sockets as he stared at his target. They twitched erratically, following the same twitchy movements as his head. The large amount of white sclera in contrast with the mere pin-prick size of his blue irises was horrifying.

"Don't move," he giggled, eyes saccading from Rizard's face and the spot on his neck that he wished to slice open.

"Fuck that!" Rizard pushed him off of him as he swung the knife, only managing to clip an inch of skin off Rizard's arm. He ignored it.

"I order you to let me kill you, Rick. You're only hurting yourself by doing this," the president asserted coldly, gripping the handle of the knife in a deathly fashion until his knuckles went as white as his wide eyes.

"I'm not going down without a fight."

"Fine. More fun for me, then."

He stood up and jumped at Rizard, slamming his head against the metal floor. Rizard grunted in pain, vision blacking out momentarily. He came to in good timing, too, because a knife came swinging down for his throat and he jerked away precariously. It did nothing, really. The president simply jabbed the blade into the side of his head instead, and Rizard thanked the Gods that he had scales. The green plates of natural armour held back the entirety of the blade from entering his skull, but enough went through his skin to hurt him agonisingly. He yelped in pain, pushing the president away with enough force to send him sliding across the floor, knife still in Rizard's head.

He pulled it out, ignoring the flow of blood that followed. It dripped down in beads down his green scales, seeping through the nooks and crannies his face presented.

Now he was the one with the weapon.

The president pulled out a gun.

Maybe not, then.

"Did you forgot about my gun?" He laughed, taking a quick glance at the seared patch of flesh on Rizard's arm.

Rizard growled. "Come on then, shoot me." He knew he wouldn't.

And he didn't.

"How did you know I wouldn't shoot?" He sounded confused, worried, even, and actually lowered the gun.

"Because guns ain't no fun."

Then the president smiled, the fear deleted from his face. All that remained was his mad eyes and an ominous smile.

"You really are a smart Rick." He tucked the gun back in his pocket. "But how about this?" He pulled out another gun, confused on why he would think it would be any different. "Tranquilliser."

Oh.

"I think you'll shoot me with that and then take me into a room where you'll perform experiments on me until I die."

"Bingo! Right on the money," he raised the weapon, but Rizard smiled again. The president cocked a brow. "Happy to die?"

"No. I just know you're not gonna shoot me with that either."

"Why not?"

He let Mortmon answer that question. Out of nowhere, the prisoner jumped onto the president's back, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The tranquilliser fell from the president's hands, sliding across the ground away from anyone's reach. Mortmon, now known as Ghost, used his claws to assault the other boy, ripping his skin into shreds as he sat on his back. His shirt was torn to pieces, fresh blood bleeding through the ripped clothing as gashes of gore were slashed into his back. He roared in pain, and in a bout of fury, grabbed Ghost (his arms did a freaky 360 turn thing) and literally threw him across the room. It was incredible to see, the president's strength was inhuman-- impossible!

Ghost didn't stay down. He ran to the president again as he stood up and their hands locked together. They brawled like barbarians, rather than civilised fighters.

Ghost looked over to Rizard. "Get out! The next floor up is where the exit is, your guard card should let you--" he gasped in pain and his words stopped short. While he was busy looking at Rizard, the president had shot an entire side of his torso clean off. He released a horribly sharp scream and fell back, blood leaking through the hole in his body.

"Rick! Don't you dare leave or I'll kill the bastard." He grabbed Ghost's hair and pulled him into the air, his strength at play again. Ghost's legs kicked at the air as he was pulled up, his hair feeling like it was about to be torn from his skull in a bloody mess.

"Don't... Listen to him. L-Leave, Rizard!" He coughed up blood, the scarlet liquid dripping down his chin in slicks of gore.

The president dropped him and held him against his chest, arm tight around his neck so breathing was even harder for the wounded boy. "If you take a single fucking step I swear I'll blow his entire face off," he taunted, smirking maliciously.

Rizard made eye contact with Ghost, sympathy and guilt entrenched on the rims of his irises. "How... Did you find me?"

"I'm p-p-psychic," he muttered, coughing more blood. "I can read y-y your thoughts, but n-not by much."

"Tell me then, what am I thinking?"

"You're scared..." he paused to take a wheezy breath. He can't talk for long, he hated talking. "You're scared the president is getting angry because of the conversation we're having."

Rizard's lips tugged upwards. He wasn't wrong in the slightest.

"You're right, little Morty," the president cooed next to his ear, his lips deathly close to his earflaps. "I am getting angry." His let his teeth nibble on the helix of his ear. Ghost thrashed, becoming panicked by the second. This wasn't a rare thing, hell, he was already missing half of his other ear.

"Say, what happened to your other ear?" He whispered, keeping eye contact with the worried stares of Rizard, making sure the elder didn't make a move.

Ghost whimpered, incredibly uncomfortable having the president's mouth so close to his ear. He had exceptional hearing and hearing those disgusting mouth noises and shaky breaths were only waking up buried memories.

His other ear was torn off by a Rick with the same intentions of the president. He knew the president was about to bite down and take a piece of the cartilage with him, but he couldn't allow that.

"Let me go!" He groaned, struggling violently in his grasp.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he uttered, before taking a bite of his ear as Ghost predicted. His teeth sunk into the cartilage, drawing blood. Ghost, even though he's felt the same pain before, screamed out and attempted to remove himself from the situation. Moving only made the attack worse, though, because the president managed to pull away some of his ear from his head just because Ghost was moving in the opposite direction. Tears welled in his eyes, running from his eyes in drops of agony and sadness.

Rizard jerked forward, ready to help the boy, but stopped when he saw the president raise the gun to Ghost's head. The boy was crying, weeping in his attacker's arms. Said attacker gazed at Rizard with a malicious smirk, daring him to take a step forward. He didn't. He stayed in place but guilt wracked him heavily. He couldn't even bring himself to take out his gun, afraid that would only end Ghost's life quicker.

"Come on, Lizzie. You're only delaying the inevitable."

The president finished the job anyway. With a final tug, the ear came off, a pool of blood afterwards. The cartilage was spat onto the floor in a bloody mess, the side of Ghost's head stained red as the gore seeped from the damaged skin, trypophobia at its finest as holes littered the side of his face in patches of red. With no blood vessels to flow through, the blood simply trickled down his temple and neck, tainting his yellow shirt red.

He was crying but trying so hard to keep it all in. He convulsively sucked in his breaths, sobbing. His face ached, it was a horrible burning sensation and it was driving him insane.

"Rizard!" He yelled, unable to hear much over the loud pulsing agony in his head. "I don't have anything to live for, I don't care if he kills me! I'll die anyway!"

The words haunted Rizard's mind. They were trapped inside his mind, an endless loop of grief and guilt purging his emotions. He couldn't let Ghost die, but... he may have to, just so he could escape. And what for? What could he possibly get out of escaping? There was no answer, but his own selfish desires finally took place, and closed his eyes tight and lunged for the tranquilliser.

His train of thought went frozen when he heard the deafening blast from the president's gun.

Rizard landed on the floor next to the tranquilliser and picked it up, firing a round at the crazed Morty. The President lied. It was actually a taser.

The electrified ammo fried the president, his body shook uncontrollably and sizzled, sparks igniting and zapping in the air. He released a long, pained scream and his eyes went dead, one of them literally losing all its colour. The dead boy in his arms dropped along with him, both of them falling to the floor in a pile of singed flesh and gore.

Then Rizard screamed. He wasn't in pain, his mind was the one in pain. Grief struck him hard, and the sight of his friend's corpse sent him reeling. Tears freely slicked down his face, but he didn't sob. He thrashed and yelled, sure, but he couldn't cry. He gazed at the corpse, his heart pounding in his chest. There's too much death in this place. Too much for him to handle. He couldn't take it. His friends were dead, and the president-- Rizard didn't even know what state he was in.

What he did know, is that he couldn't leave Ghost's corpse to rot in this horrible place. He went over and picked up his body, cradling him in his arms carefully. He patted his hair as if he were a sleeping child, ignoring the sticky gore in his hair. His entire face was missing, blown off completely by laser fire. It was simply a mess of blood, melted flesh, and the outer layer of his bloodstained skull. His eyeballs had been blown into gore and the frontal lobe of his brain had as well, but his teeth still lined his jaw, not a single one damaged by the blast. The heat from the laser burst had cauterised the wound, but just like Rishy-- _the damage had already been done._

"I'm so sorry," he cooed, tears welling in his eyes. "You deserved better."

He towered over to the president's body, staring down at him with pure hatred, disgust and anger. He wanted to crush his head with his boot, relish the feeling of his skin and bones breaking under his foot, but he was already well dead. The boy's chest wasn't rising and no breath was escaping past his closed lips. His glossy eyes were frozen wide, staring at the ceiling mindlessly. They glistened in the dim lights of the bunker, giving him the innocence he never had.

Rizard did it. He actually did. The president was dead!

He laughed and screamed happily. "Fuck you, asshole! Who's the god now?! HAHA!" He cackled maniacally, resisting the urge to drop Ghost and absolutely destroy the president's corpse.

"You never had a chance! Everyone knows how it's meant to be. Ricks killing Mortys. You failed, _sir._ You fucking lost," he seethed happily, a wide smile still plastered across his face. He couldn't believe it. The long years of enslavement and genocide and Rizard finally stopped it. And with a simple taser, too? There was a massive downside with the president's cybernetic implants: they didn't like electricity. Whatever his main power source was, well, it must have _really_ hated electricity.

As smoke puffed from his robot eye and fried circuits, Rizard stepped over his body with Ghost in his arms. If he didn't make it out, there was no point celebrating his death. Rizard had to let everyone know he killed him, and maybe he was doing it for his own selfish desires just so he could be famous and possibly the next president himself, but he definitely knew he was doing it for every single poor, lost soul on the Citadel, even the workers in the factory, the chipped guards, the unchipped guards, Ghost and... _Rishy._

Surely, there had to be a ventilation system somewhere leading out of the hell hole. The one he escaped from last time was blocked off, so he would have to find another.

Then it became obvious to him. All he needed was a keycard, and who did he just kill? The president. The boy with more control over the citadel then anyone ever before. He ducked down and dropped Ghost's body as he dug around in the president's pockets. There was no keycard, so he just went with his gut. He pulled out his own gun and placed the barrel on the boy's wrist. With the pull of the trigger, the gun absolutely obliterated his wrist and separated his hand from his arm. The hand sat in a growing puddle of blood and was collected by Rizard, which he shoved into his pocket. Next, in the best effort he could, pulled out the boy's robot eye. The glass optic came out less bloody then he anticipated, and was also put into his pocket.

Rizard had a feeling that either his handprint or an eye scan was another alternative for a keycard.

He picked up Ghost again and tossed him over his shoulder, keeping his gun securely in his other hand. He started his victory trek. He had a feeling the exit was on the first floor, which he missed completely when the darkness of this room called out to him. It didn't have that effect anymore, now, the darkness wanted him out.

"Everything is going to be okay, Mortmon," he whispered, unaffected by the fact he was talking to a corpse. "I'll make sure everyone knows how brave you were. You'll never be forgotten, sweetheart..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am deeply apologetic  
> like  
> i am. im sorry. rip Mortmon my poor, poor boy. at least he's finally at peace,,, i love u. but also, the fic is close to an end. i wonder whats gonna happen next :00000000000 that was sarcastic i know whats gonna happen u fucking dweebs. love y'all, stay RADICAL-- _i cant believe i just said that_


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